Moriarty's Boyfriend
by rumjhum88
Summary: "Jim Moriarty...the rich bloke with a dirty name... he's your...?" "He's everything I have." Dark as chocolate, rich as blood. Sheriarty eventual Johnlock. If you can't take it don't read it. AU. Don't own Sherlock or anything related. Character created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC does the series.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was _awake_.

His mind was awake before his body. It didn't happen every day except for days like _these_. Yes, Sherlock knew, it was one of those days when his mind woke up before him and started _thinking_. Sherlock dreaded these days. He knew how these days ended. How these days _always _ended.

Fighting the initial reluctance of his body to open the eyes heavy after a deep sleep, he laid thinking. He was aware of his surroundings, the smells, the early morning air, faint noises and a weight on his chest, heaving rhythmically with his breathing. He knew he was lying on his back in the middle of a huge Victorian bed covered with plush bedding, black silk sheets, wrapped in a black duvet. He could smell fresh tea, various other fragrances which were mixed in the air of the room along with his own and another person's smell. He knew it was six in the morning because that is when he always got up. He was aware of the curtains of the window on the furthest corner of the room moving as the morning air came in. He could mentally see the dark red curtains moving and sunbeams peeking into the room. He was aware of the warm breath on his chest. He was aware what that weight was. Though the breath was deep and slow he knew that person was awake, mentally like him. Because he always knew when Sherlock was awake. He was aware of two limp hands on both his sides besides his. He knew he had to get up now. He already felt appalled.

He slowly opened his eyes to an almost dark room, faintly lit by sunlight coming through the window past the heavy curtain. He saw the well-known rich coloured walls, the white ceiling, the windows, the Victorian furniture and the man lying on top of him, half covered by the duvet, half bare, seemingly sound asleep.

_Who would believe that this man kills Just for the pleasure of killing? Look at that face. So peaceful, innocent, timid even. _Sherlock thought.

He didn't remember accurately when he didn't wake up like this. With this head heaving on his chest, the sound of another person breathing in the room except for him. Even when he was not there physically, Sherlock would wake up to him staring from the large plasma screen right across the bed, watching him intently. He was always there, even when he was not there. He never missed waking up with Sherlock. He never missed anything even remotely related to Sherlock. If he could help it then he wouldn't miss Sherlock breathing once. Sherlock couldn't be alone even if he wanted to. As it happened on these days Sherlock felt that deep disgust about the person still lying prone on top of him. He felt sick and wanted to tear that person away from his body as if it were something unclean and poisonous.

_Why doesn't he just move?_

Sherlock knew the answer to that question also. _He probably knew too. _

He did. Like he knew Sherlock's every breath, every look, every movement and every thought. He also knew that this was one of those days. The days Sherlock started thinking before waking up. He dreaded these days too, like he hated Sherlock thinking. Because whenever Sherlock thought, Sherlock hated him. He would be irked by anything he did today, anything at all, even nothing. Sherlock would be irked if he moved sensing his discomfort, he would be irked if he didn't. He would be irked to hear good morning, he would be irked to see him at the breakfast table; he would be irked if he moved a muscle or even breathe. So he did what he always did on days like this. Stayed prone, like he was still sleeping, like he didn't exist and he would remain so until Sherlock went out. He didn't like to see Sherlock irked and would never cause or aggravate it. But on days like these he involuntarily did both.

Sherlock moved the man as gently as his irritated body and mind would let him from his body. He placed his feet on the plush red carpet which tickled his feet lightly. He didn't revel in the sensation. He wanted cold steady contact to put himself in reality and not velvety dream right now. He went to the shower and turned on the cold water for a few moments. The gush of cold piercing water shook him to his bones and he was jolted back to his college days instead of reality.

Sherlock was a shy boy. Shy, quiet, intelligent and rich. He was left with a huge estate and nothing else. No family, no friends. He was lonely but bad at making friends. He was rich but unsocial. He hardly spoke and things that interested boys of his age never interested him. Above all he was intelligent, highly, thus envied. Life at school had taught him two things. One, he was different from others and two he had to protect himself from others. When the bullied, bruised, lonely, unhappy and friendless school life ended, he braced himself for another such life ahead. He could have lost interest in studying and gone back to the estate and stayed there for the rest of his life. A secured, secluded life. But he loved knowing, knowledge was his only addiction. He had already learned 7 different languages while in school. He loved art, history, music, science, anything and everything that he could know. And he loved advancement. He liked the superiority that it gave to a person. He loved reading. He longed for a person, a companion with whom he could share his interests with. He was used to being alone, that didn't mean he liked it. It was not easy, holding your head high, being a snob, assuming a very cold and nonchalant demeanour in the face of demeaning remarks, unacceptance, bullying, being unacknowledged and completely utterly lonely. He clung on to his studies with al he had. He was the best student, he had to be and the most envied. Half of the college hated him the others ignored him.

He was at his sanctuary one fine afternoon. It was a secluded place not much visited by the other students. There was a brook and some great big trees scattered around the place. It was peaceful, undisturbed. Sherlock went there to read, to write, to just sit and thing. He was throwing pebbles in the brook that day, standing near a bush engrossed in thought when a bunch of students of not very good repute arrived. There were some senior students along with Sherlock's contemporaries. They had some bottles in their hands. _ They are here to get drunk. _ Sherlock was clearly in their way, unwanted. So a senior hissed at him

"Go away from here you freak!"

"Yeah, there are other trees you can measure or deduce exactly how old they are! Go away!"

_Their bullying methods were still so high school._

"You better get out of here or things would get nasty Sherlock!" threatened a contemporary. The crowd was getting visibly annoyed with him but Sherlock was too angry and too proud to leave.

"I don't see why I should go away, you are the ones interrupting me." he said coldly.

"Interrupting you?! Why , what exactly were you doing here? " said one.

"Planning to save the earth somehow?" said another.

"Sod this boys, just make him go away!" ordered a senior and picked up a stone, others followed suit.

As soon as he understood Sherlock put his arms up protectively before his face and ducked a little in reflex. But after a few seconds he felt nothing was coming at him. He removed his arms to see what was happening. The boys were staring at him dumbfounded, fear in their eyes. Within a few more seconds they dropped their weapons and bottles also and ran towards where they came from, terrified.

_Terrified? Of me? have I grown an extra head or something?_

"Hi." A small sweet voice came from behind him. He turned to look and found a very delicate looking boy about his age, dark haired, dark eyed staring timidly at him from a few feet distance. As Sherlock looked at him he dropped his gaze to the ground. He looked very shy. As shy and quiet as Sherlock.

"You are very brave." Said the boy in the same sweet tone.

Sherlock went a bit closer.

"Who are you?" he asked frowning, he didn't remember seeing this boy before.

"I'm Jim." Answered the boy. He added swallowing and glancing sideways at Sherlock as if afraid "Jim Moriarty."

Sherlock's breath hitched and he instinctively turned the shower hot. He leaned with his back to the wall and looked up to the flowing water.

_Jim. _He had heard that name before, but only in whispers, hushed voices. Nobody openly took his name. Many people hadn't seen him. But everybody seemed to know him. Fear him, for reasons Sherlock didn't know then. He was quite surprised to see him, a very timid and delicate looking boy of his age, _how could anybody fear him? _Yet he had seen a bunch of boys on the verge of attacking him run away at the very sight of him. Sherlock felt intrigued. Jim was well groomed, well dresses, though conservatively like Sherlock who also preferred full sleeve shirts more than casuals. His hair was slick, well brushed and he looked he belonged to a rich and influential family, well most of the students in that college did. There was something sinister about him though. Something lurking in those dark brown glistening eyes, something far more than intelligence and something else that was appalling. As Sherlock drew close he said again, this time looking excited

"I read your essays in the college magazine! They are amazing."

Sherlock was taken aback. He never expected this. He never had anyone appreciating leave alone praising him before except some of the professors. He had struck a chord, Sherlock felt drawn to him. 

_And that was the beginning of the end. _ Sherlock thought turning the shower off. Wearing his bathrobe, drying his hair with another towel Sherlock stepped into his closet. There were seven new shirts in his shirt segment neatly and strategically placed so that they catch his attention. Sherlock sighed exasperated. He didn't need them, he already had clothes that would last a lifetime. Yet, every time Jim wanted he replenished Sherlock's wardrobe with whatever his imagination told him was lacking in it or Sherlock needed. Sherlock never asked for anything. He never had to. He was already overflowing with everything. He only asked Jim to stop. It frustrated them both. Jim would promise to stop and then continue doing the same thing. _ Like all his other promises. _Sherlock didn't remember being needful of something, wanting something badly. Needs, wants, cravings were gradually leaving him. Leaving too much space behind he didn't know how to fill or what to fill with. Something inside him was dying. Gradually. As he completed dressing and was putting on his suit jacket he felt something lacking. Jim, he wasn't helping him with his jacket today. Everyday Jim would walk into Sherlock's wardrobe and help him with it, putting it on and smoothing its collar down he would press a hand across Sherlock's chest and press his forehead to Sherlock's back and whisper "I love you." Repulsion bought Sherlock back to reality again. He could see Jim still lying prone on the bed just as he had left him, feigning sleep, his reflection on the wardrobe mirror. Sherlock saw his own reflection beside him, the red curtains, the red carpet, the dark walls. He felt repulsed again. _Blood. Why did everything in this room represent blood and gloom and horror suddenly? _ Each and everything in this room, in this entire house was according to Sherlock's tastes and choices, so why did he feel repulsed by them now? Yes, everything he liked was in this room with everything he didn't like. It's the perks of living with Jim Moriarty. Pleasure and repulsion, freedom and confinement, abhorrence and love all remained side by side, making one walk on a fine line constantly and on days like this this balancing act became too much to handle for Sherlock. He redressed it in a way he didn't like or approve of himself. The thought of it disturbed him and he walked out in a hurry leaving his breakfast behind. The limo was waiting for him outside. The chauffeur greeted him. He nodded back getting hurriedly inside the car. He wanted to be out and away from this place as soon as possible. He wanted to avert the inevitable. Jim watched from behind the curtains of the bedroom window.

As he leaned back in his plush seat memories flooded back to his mind.

Much didn't pass between them that afternoon. Just a thankful glance from Sherlock and an admiring one from Jim. They stood there silently for a long time. It amazed Sherlock. It amazed him how Jim also didn't find the necessity of a conversation absolute. There was no awkwardness in that silence, mutual understanding instead. After some time they walked back to the college together. Without saying anything they had formed a friendship. And from that very day everything had changed. As soon as they set foot inside the gates everything inside the college came to a halt. People stared at them. Not mocking, not pointing fingers but in absolute fear. Sherlock felt a deep sense of foreboding as he walked along. Hushed voices, curious glances and a very uncomfortable silence, as if they had entered a funeral. He looked at Jim for a moment who seemed very nonchalant about the change, as if he was used to it. Though the look on his face was cautious, predatory. He looked at Sherlock with a warm friendly smile as he reached their hostel. But Sherlock had registered his slight change in demeanour , this boy could change whenever he wanted to and maybe he did, that's why even when apparently there was no reason to fear him people did abhor him. But this didn't alarm Sherlock, it intrigued him more as all other studies did. Jim Moriarty intrigued him even more than them.

Sherlock's reverie was ended when the limo stopped in front of his office. The chauffeur held his door open.


	2. Chapter 2

Stepping out of the car Sherlock took a deep breath. Looking at the sky he knew it would rain today. The sky was just as gloomy as his mind. He walked towards the high white building covered with glass. He stood tall in front of it for a few moments, a sarcastic smile crept on his face. He kept the smile on as he walked in and walked towards the elevator door. _Everything in this building even today resembles that day. Everybody talking in a hushed voice, no body directly looking but alert, everybody keeping a safe distance. Everybody afraid._

Stepping out of the elevator standing in front of his office door the familiar repulsion gripped him again. Why was he in this office? What did he actually do here? Oh he was a solicitor right? People came to him when they needed legal advice. Or did they? People only came here if allowed by Jim. People who really needed a lawyer, a person to fight for their rights, to save them from injustice, to redress a crime never came to him. They were filtered out by Jim before Sherlock could even know about them. Because most of the time the rights were violated by him, the injustice was caused by him and the crime was done by him only. Then again who would consult the live in partner of a criminal mastermind who walked free in the land posing as a business man and nobody could lay a finger on him? A solicitor who shared his bed with the king of unorganized crime in London. Not organized, never organized. Organization led to pattern, pattern to people, people to evidences and evidences to further more trouble. Jim didn't plan or organize anything. He had very few fixed people for his work. He was random, he picked people randomly, left no clue, no link. Most of the time he wouldn't leave anyone alive to tell the tale. He could and would kill, steal, manipulate, threaten do anything randomly yet in the end getting what he was reaching for. No matter how many people knew what he really was nobody could point a finger at him. Some for the lack of courage and others for the lack of adequate evidence. Jim would never get caught unless he wanted to, which would never happen. Thus the crime continued. Sherlock never ever had a case even remotely related to Jim. If he didn't know everything so painfully well he could say that Jim Moriarty was the cleanest man possible. But he did know. He did know the painful truths about his life. Thus the killings, the drugs, the extortions, blackmailing, trafficking, kidnappings all went on under his nose, he seemingly unaware but painfully aware and helpless. Jim tried very hard, _oh yes he tried very hard_ to keep Sherlock in the dark, away from that side of his but there were days when he just couldn't and revealed his real self to him. Sherlock closed his eyes shut at some vivid memories of those days. It made his stomach turn. By the time he was standing next to his chamber's window, looking down at a busy street below. Why was he here? Why did he even bother to come here every day? He could just sit at home and be what he really is. What everybody thinks he really is, Moriarty's bed mate. Rage surged through Sherlock and he threw the cup away which crashed and scattered making a noise next to his desk. People outside his chamber became very still. They looked at each other for a few moments before resuming their work nonchalantly. They were used to these too. The house keeping came and cleared the mess silently. What about the mess Sherlock's life was now? Who was there to clear it? Oh it cannot be cleared as long as both of them were alive. One of them had to die and Sherlock chose to be the one. Many times. It didn't work. Of course it didn't. Jim would never let him die. He was always under Jim's surveillance. He couldn't move a muscle without Jim knowing about it. Yet, yet he was so free, nobody bothered him, no one came close enough to cause him any discomfort or comfort. He was respected and feared everywhere he went. His movements were free, unhindered. He had what he wanted. He was living in his own sanctuary, free but always under surveillance. _Freedom and confinement side by side. _He couldn't choose. He had to take them both. He was as free as a fish in a bowl, it was just that his bowl was bigger. He could be anywhere in the world and yet be in that bowl called Jim Moriarty.

"Sir." A small voice spoke from behind him. James, his agent.

"Yes." He said without looking.

"Your client is here."

"Send him in."

Another dull, futile day of his dull, futile life passed with nonsensical people all around him. From the people who worked for him to the people who hired his services. Did he study for this? This meaningless, challenge less life? He had tried not working for several days. He couldn't bear it. It was the only refuge from the darkness he was entitled to. However inadequate. Without this he would rot, just plain simple rot. He felt anger surge within him again. He was rotting anyway. He was rotting with the incurable disease called Moriarty. And now he was going back to him. Going back to that house, to that man who grew on him like a parasite and sucked out every opportunity every chance he had for a normal or better life, the predator who _marked_ him for life. The creature who made him _his_. Sherlock didn't believe in fate, chance, destiny. But he couldn't describe this utter misfortune in any other way. It was fate that they met, it was fate that they became friends, it was fate that he became his, and it was fate that his life was what it was. Or, it was all because of his lack of judgement, control, unwise decisions. Sherlock could either blame himself or something that he didn't believe in. He chose to blame neither on _these_ days. Because he was sure that all of this was Jim's fault. And Jim would pay. Sherlock tried to control his anger, no he won't do _that_ again. This would pass. He was tormented by his own wishes, torn between his own choices and tortured by the thoughts of what was coming. Getting inside the limo Sherlock tried to control his nerves with immense effort. He could manage an extremely calm demeanour even when there was a storm inside. He successfully managed to do that throughout the day, and even now when he knew deep down inside that he was losing a battle against himself he looked serene outside.

As he entered the house a violent terror gripped him. His head throbbing, heart pounding, breathing erratic, he walked stealthily as if he was a thief in the house. He didn't go up to the room. He didn't change. He sat in the richly furnished living room for as long as he could. He had tea, had supper, watched news, read papers. As the time neared his fear grew beyond limits. It could not be postponed anymore. He had to go through it again. He cursed himself for losing control over himself again. He skipped dinner and did the inevitable. He entered into the dimly lit bedroom. Everything was just the same except for the bed sheets. They were blood red now and right there in the middle of the red bed lay a black flogger with round silver metallic tips.

Waiting for him.

Sherlock tugged his tie loose.


	3. Chapter 3

If there was anything Sherlock dreaded more than _those_ days it was the morning after.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

His mind clear, fresh, calm. The agitation, repulsion, fury of the other day gone with the memory of what had passed last night. Only for that one brief serene moment before he looks at the man on top of him. Jim's head was on his chest as always, moving in tune with Sherlock's breathing, his hands limply lying on both sides of Sherlock, half bare , all very much like every day. But today there are several vivid bright crimson marks on his pale, white, fragile looking body. There are marks are on his hands, all over his back, as he was lying face down Sherlock couldn't see if there were marks on his front also. He knew there were. The bruises looked angry, burning red and some of them bled feebly, some had dried blood on them.

_I did it again. _Sherlock thought engulfed in complete and utter dread, self-loathing and guilt.

The day after was always the opposite of the day before. Sherlock felt the same repulsion, anger and abhorrence but today they were directed to himself. He couldn't forgive himself because he couldn't control himself. This was not the first time he did this to Jim and it was definitely not the first time when Jim had let him do this. The fear that had gripped Sherlock yesterday was the fear of this, he was afraid of himself and what he might do again. Now the outcome of his outburst lay bare in front of his just awoken eyes. The sight was terrible even for the eyes which had seen worse. Sherlock's heart constricted and his face contorted as his mind fled back to the memory of the day when Sherlock had first hit Jim.

They were still in college and Sherlock by then had got well acquainted with Jim and his doings. By then it was perfectly clear to him what he had involuntarily walked into. But that didn't stop him from protesting, from trying to bring Jim back, to save him. He never feared Jim, it was always quite the contrary. Jim feared Sherlock, more precisely losing Sherlock, because Sherlock was what he had. So when a senior student was found heavily drugged in his room and was found to have hidden cocaine supply and was rusticated from the college , Sherlock along with everyone else suspected Jim.

"He bullied you." Jim had said, avoiding looking at a furious Sherlock.

"That was a long time ago Jim!" Sherlock had barked.

"He was going to throw a stone at you the day we met. " He had replied nervously, too scared to look at Sherlock, hands put together, standing in a corner sticking to the wall.

"Did I tell you to do this? Did I tell you that I was angry with him?" Sherlock was losing his patience.

"No." Jim had said in a small voice.

"WHY?" yelled Sherlock. Looking feral.

"I-I could-couldn't ju-just let them g-get away-" Jim had explained stammering.

Sherlock's rising anger went out of control thinking he could do nothing to redress the situation. He also could not prove Jim guilty. Trying very hard to control his temper he said to Jim,

"Stop this. Tell them it was you and not him."

"No." a firm reply from a small feeble voice.

"I'll never talk to you Jim. I. will. Leave. You. For good." Sherlock said emphasising.

"What's wrong with you Sherlock?" Jim looked at him with utter amazement and hurt.

"You'd leave me for a bloke who tried to hit you?"

"JIM! Stop this. Stop this right now!"

Jim held his arms up in front of his face as if to protect himself from Sherlock.

"Don't do this Sherlock, I am your friend. Your only friend. I was just trying to save you from that bully, forever. He would never bully you now. Aren't you happy?" Jim said, his eyes welling up.

"He wouldn't have bullied me further! Don't you see? Everybody avoids me more than ever since I became your friend. Everybody hates me, loathes you and would never dare to do anything like that again! They fear us already! "

"They fear _me _Sherlock and they will always do. You are right, nobody would dare to do anything like that again. But I have to make sure." Jim explained looking longingly at Sherlock expecting him to see reason.

Sherlock was feeling helpless already he became vicious at this outrageous reasoning. He had grabbed a bone china flower pot from the writing desk and thrown it at Jim's head. Jim didn't move or try to save himself. He had stood still and taken the blow. It had hit him on the head, his forehead was bleeding profusely and he stumbled to the ground on his knees. Sherlock stood open mouthed, horrified and disgusted at his deed. His anger evaporating. What monster had he become? Hitting his only friend like that? The only person who understood him, knew him, supported him, cared for him, trusted him!

"Jim…I…I'm so…" Sherlock could only manage an incoherent whisper.

Jim stood up with great effort, blinking rapidly as the blood flow made his vision blur, he dragged himself to Sherlock's wiring table and took the other vase in his trembling hands.

For a moment Sherlock thought he was going to hit him with it. He was glad at the thought, he would gladly take the blow. He deserved it. But he was not prepared for what Jim actually did. Jim came to him staggering, handed him the vase and sat down kneeling in front of a dumb struck Sherlock. Sherlock could never forget the pleading, imploring, blood drenched eyes in his life. Jim had to be in hospital for several days. Sherlock by his side like a guardian angel, always.

The incident didn't change anything though. Neither their relationship nor Jim's nature. None of the students who attempted to throw stones at Sherlock on that fateful day completed college.

From that day onward Sherlock had tried and tried and tried not to repeat it. But it seemed impossible at times. The most difficult part was that Jim knew that if he let Sherlock vent his anger on him he would calm down for a long time. Jim would gladly sacrifice himself to Sherlock's fury on days like those and make it impossible for Sherlock to keep his control. He would let Sherlock's hatred shatter his body because he knew that he won't hate him from the day after. He would let the storm pass for the bright blue sky. He would do anything for Sherlock, anything to make him not hate him.

But for Sherlock the scenario never changed. Just the perspective. It didn't make him any happy to hit Jim like that. He loved Jim. Absurdly so, he didn't think this was any solution to the problem, which was right. He remained as gloomy as before with the extra burden of guilt.

He absentmindedly stroked a bruise. Jim hissed in pain. It startled Sherlock. Jim propped his sleepy face up, rested his chin on Sherlock's chest and looked at him lovingly with a small tired smile, "Good morning." He said in a sleepy whisper.

Sherlock felt choked. He couldn't feel or say anything for a moment. On days like these Jim would look at Sherlock's eyes and search containment, relief and encouragement. But he only saw guilt, self-loathing and deep sorrow.

"Oh god I'm so sorry!" Sherlock whispered removing his hand and looking apologetically at Jim.

Jim's face fell, he looked alarmed. He extended a heavily bruised hand and stroked Sherlock's face lovingly. His eyes reassuring.

"It's okay."

_No it's not. _ "Why Jim? Why do you let me do it?" Sherlock said in a choked voice shaking his head slowly.

Jim took his hand away looking extremely hurt, as if he was expecting appreciation and encouragement and got utter disregard instead. Sherlock could never make Jim understand that doing this may have eased his pain for the time being and released his anger but after that it only aggravated his frustration and made him extremely agitated with himself. Jim would always look up to him on these days as a child who had done something to get the appraisal of someone beloved and got rebuked instead. This broke Sherlock's heart furthermore.

Jim saw the pain in Sherlock's eyes and started to slowly withdraw himself from him. As he lifted himself Sherlock could see the heavily bruised pale chest. He couldn't take it, it was enough. He didn't remember seeing Jim so bruised in the last ten years since they have been together. What had he become last night? How could Jim take this? Why would Jim take this? Because he loved him. And Sherlock had beaten the shit out of him because of that. Yes Jim was a criminal, he was insane, he killed, he didn't have control over himself, he was bad, abhorred but he was everything he had. His family, friend, home everything and he loved Sherlock with everything he had, he could and would die for him, this was just a little beating. Sherlock jumped out of bed at the sight of Jim's ravaged body. He was shivering, with anger and pain. He wrapped his arms around and turned his back to Jim. Jim by this time was getting extremely worried at Sherlock's demeanour. He stood beside the bed in his black silk pyjamas, the only thing he wore to bed and looking at Sherlock with extreme anxiety and pain. Sherlock was difficult on days like these, he didn't appreciate what Jim did but he never turned away like this. He seemed to abhor the sight of Jim today. Jim felt nauseous. He held up his hands in front of him as if to hide from the sight of Sherlock's abhorrence and total refusal to acknowledge his presence. He said in a weepy voice hiding a sob,

"Sherlock…I won't… come in front of you…if you don't want to…see me for some…time."

Sherlock turned to face his lover. His heart crushed at the sight. He almost ran towards Jim and taking him in his arms he pressed him against his body. Jim gave out a sigh of relief and supressed a moan of pain. Sherlock kissed him feverishly, he kissed all the bruises he had made. He could smell the blood and as his lips brushed the coarse skin he could taste the faint salty metallic tang of blood. He wanted to compensate. It made Jim shiver in pleasure and wince in pain. He was overjoyed, his expectation was fulfilled even though a little late. Sherlock had forgiven him, he didn't hate him anymore. For now.


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you for the review!

* * *

"Let's get out of here for some time."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere…anywhere out of London." Sighed Sherlock, holding Jim's head closer to his chest. He had cancelled his appointments for that day. So had Jim. He had bathed Jim, fed him and applied ointment on the bruises which made him unable to wear clothes on his upper body that day. No matter how soft the material was it hurt him whenever the bruises brushed against them. Sherlock sat on the bed resting his back on the plush leather panelled head board, only in his pyjamas, because fabric caused Jim discomfort. Jim leaning on him, face buried in Sherlock's warm bare chest. Sherlock's skin was working on him like a medicine, the warmth, the softness against his bruises was soothing him. He was in peace.

"How about Yorkshire?" He mumbled into Sherlock's chest and nuzzled for confirmation.

_Yorkshire. The moors, the dales, the air, the mountains, the unrestricted view, the silence, no crowds, no blokes staring at me, no whisperings and hopefully no killing., Oh the peace, the calm, the oblivion from this life. Yorkshire is my escape route, my paradise, it's like that brook that was my sanctuary once. Oh the freedom, the freedom from all of this no matter how short lived it is, it is a chance to breathe properly again. I haven't lived for so long, I have forgotten what it is like. I want to go there, see the sun peeking from those dark and grand mountains, the wind caressing the lavish moors, the warmth of the warm heath, I want to hear the rustling of leaves as the air ruffles them like a mother ruffling her child's hair affectionately. I want to inhale life and exhale the toxic tragedy I am living right now for a few days. Oh! A few days of bliss, comfort and good memories. _

Sherlock swallowed hard before breathing out a "yes." Raw nature a bam for raw wounds.

"Remember the house Sherlock?" Jim murmured again contentedly sensing Sherlock's pleasure.

_The house. The beautiful house made of stone and wood. The large gate covered with Bougainvillea bushes, fuchsia and white. the wide space between the huge gate and the two storey, flooded with multiple colours of the season, well kept, well attended. The big glass windows through which the sun beams come unhindered. The magnificent view of the sun coming up between the hills could be seen so clearly lying on the bed. Breath-taking. _ Sherlock almost whimpered with the need to be there. He held Jim closer in reply and felt Jim smile against his skin. Whatever made Sherlock happy made Jim happy. Sherlock couldn't remember Jim saying anything about his likes or dislikes. Colours, places, books, thoughts, words, food, clothes anything and everything was according to Sherlock's choices, nothing ever was suggested by Jim. "Whatever you like." Was Jim's patent answer to any such decision making. He always gave the impression that he did not ever have any choice of his own. Till date Sherlock was not able to find if it was true or not. Jim always sensed what Sherlock liked. He always spoke on topics of his choice, brought him books he would like and find out little things about Sherlock and do them to please him. In fact that is how another life changing incident had taken place in their lives. The memory was still so vivid.

Sherlock was just about to step out of his hostel room to go and fetch Jim. It was a Sunday, he had planned on to go to the brook and read an excellent book he had gotten hold of in the Library, it dealt with unsolved criminal cases of the more than a century. Sherlock was too excited to remember that since the day they had met Jim was always found waiting in front of Sherlock's door whenever there was time for both of them to be together. Every morning just as Sherlock opened the door he would find Jim standing with his books in hand all ready for the classes. They would walk together to the classes and return together. Even in the free afternoons and evenings he would find Jim waiting outside to accompany him to the brook, to the library or study together. Since they met, Sherlock was never alone. So that day when Sherlock opened the door he found Jim standing with a shy smile holding two fishing rods and a basket in his hands. Sherlock wasn't surprised to find him there but by the things he carried.

"How did you…..?" he said amazed.

"Thought you might like it." Jim said handing him a rod.

Sherlock smiled thankfully taking the fishing rod and said "And have just the cure for the waiting!"

Jim looked at the book excitedly and Sherlock was happy to provide Jim with something _he _appreciated for a change. They were even now. It had been a long time since Sherlock had last gone fishing, he was extremely excited and kept lecturing Jim all the way to the brook about fishing, to which Jim listened intently. They walked down the brook into the moor where the trees were denser and the brook a bit more deep and settled themselves under a tree comfortably. They prepared and put their stings in water and waited patiently reading and discussing the book. Soon they were both so enraptured in the contents of the book that they didn't notice Sherlock's fishing rod slightly moving. He had put the rod between the tree and a big rock and didn't feel it move either. Suddenly a quick dragging sound startled them both and they saw Sherlock's fishing rod going into the brook before they could react. Sherlock was the first to jump up and gone after it, Jim following close behind. Sherlock threw himself at the end of the fishing rod trying in vain to grab hold of it before it totally drowned , he fell in the water instead. The water was not more than knee level for a tall boy like him but he fell headlong in it and almost somersaulted in the water.

"Sherlock!" Jim cried out in distress and ran into the water only to collide with Sherlock who was trying to get up.

"Oh god!" Sherlock gasped as he lost his balance and almost fell over Jim. He was able to regain balance with some effort and held onto Jim by holding him with both his arms who had almost lost balance at the collision.

"That was close!" huffed Sherlock, drenched, looking at a still worried Jim in his arms.

"You're okay? Tell me you're okay!" said Jim holding Sherlock by the collar of his shirt with both hands, still disturbed.

"Hey! I'm okay! Nothing happened." Sherlock said trying to calm Jim. Jim released a breath of relief and looked up at Sherlock again with concern filled eyes. He slowly released his collar and let his hands slide down without touching Sherlock. Sherlock realised they were still standing in the middle of the brook, getting soaked further and that Jim was still in his arms. He looked away from Jim and released him. Jim slowly turned around and started to wade through to the land Sherlock following behind. He was feeling guilty, something could have happened to Sherlock, he should have kept an eye on the rods, should have never let Sherlock run into the water like that. Distracted by his thoughts he stumbled upon a rock and fell into the water only to be rescued by Sherlock again. Two pale long hands grabbing him from behind just as his face touched the water.

"Jim watch it!" came a concerned baritone from behind him. Sherlock grabbed him and turned him around to face him. Jim was still half into water as he hadn't got the chance to properly stand up, his legs still searching for balance under the flowing water. As Sherlock turned him around he held his one arm for support and looked into his eyes. The concern in Sherlock's eyes melted his heart. Sherlock looked beautiful, soaked curls dripping, face flushed and wet, eyes full of concern. Sherlock's friendship was more than Jim could ever ask for, he had never expected this from Sherlock. He tried to open his mouth to say that it was okay but nothing came out. What little balance he had gained was lost, he couldn't tear his eyes from Sherlock's steady gaze, he almost became limp in his strong arms. Sherlock was lost in the moment himself. The cold brook water caressing his legs, the warm limp body lying in his hands, two grateful, submissive eyes looking into his and silence everywhere as if the whole surrounding was watching them in anticipation. Sherlock felt he could hear his own heartbeat, even Jim's along with the steady rumble of water. Jim was lost totally, he gave himself away to Sherlock, the grey blue eyes, warm, piercing, commanding, concerned. Sherlock saw two very deep, dark, mysterious yet timid, lonely eyes as if looking into his soul, searching solace, searching peace, searching protection. Suddenly he was overwhelmed with the emotion of protecting the person in his arms, he wanted to reassure him that he was there for him and will always be, he wanted to take that loneliness away from those otherwise beautiful eyes. Jim could feel Sherlock's agitation, he felt his breath on his lips and he closed his eyes in total surrender. Sherlock's lips came down on his slowly, softly. At first they were wet and slightly cold, then they became warm with the friction with two other warm lips. Jim felt he was going deeper, he felt like drowning, then he actually felt water rising to his sides and reaching his face. Sherlock was bending over him, with him, pushing him in the brook in the process. He didn't care, he didn't even open his eyes. Sherlock was kissing him, he had touched him in the most tender and loving manner possible in this world. Even if only for this moment Sherlock had _loved_ him. He didn't know if Sherlock would regret it later or not, he feared he would. He didn't know if Sherlock would leave him here as soon as he was back to his senses and never look back, he didn't know if this was their last day as friends. If something like that was to happen then he would prefer to die here, right now, like this.

But he didn't drown. Sherlock pulled him out of the water as gently without removing his lips. He steadied Jim and held his hands with his to his sides. He gradually withdrew from a panting, silently crying Jim who didn't look at him at first. Sherlock put his index finger under the crying boy's chin and tilted his head upward meeting his eyes.

"Let's get out of the water Jim, you'll catch a cold." He said in a husky voice. The boy obeyed.

Once out of the water Jim was shivering lightly. It was partly cold and partly the dreadful fear that this was the last time Sherlock was ever being with him. He was avoiding looking at Sherlock who stood close. He started hurriedly to gather the things under the tree only to be pushed up against it by the taller boy. He was still shivering, Sherlock was pressing his shoulders to the tree, his eyes bore into Jim's. Jim felt as if his heart would burst any minute now. He had to answer Sherlock's questioning gaze. He had to say it no matter how small and vulnerable it made him feel, he was always vulnerable to this man anyway.

He swallowed and said, trying very hard to keep his voice steady as tears rolled down his cheeks once again. "Don't leave me." he whispered. "Please."

Sherlock's demeanor changed at his words. His eyes became soft and hands loosened around Jim's shoulders. His hands slid to Jim's sides and he dragged the smaller boy into a firm, warm embrace.

Jim smiled as his tears flowed and he clung to Sherlock's wet shirt as he heard the baritone say firmly into his ear the most magical and reassuring word he could ask for.

"Never."


	5. Chapter 5

Two days later their Limo was on the way to their desired destination.

Sherlock who was watching the scenes passing rapidly outside the window intently now turned his gaze to look at the man sitting beside him. Jim was wearing a crème coloured suit today with a blood red tie, engrossed in his I-phone, seemingly oblivious to everything else. Everything except Sherlock. As soon as he felt Sherlock's gaze he looked up and gave a small shy smile and returned his attention to the I-phone. Sherlock sat watching him. He wanted to be away, he could be. Jim couldn't be away from anything_, ever_. Something or the other was always happening under his instruction, he was always onto something, he was always conducting something, observing something and he couldn't be away from those, not even for a second. A chill ran down Sherlock's spine as he thought what Jim could be doing right now sitting beside him calmly through his I-phone only in any corner of this world.

_Look at this man. Fragile, small, delicate, timid, easily broken by one scornful word from me, sitting with ease seemingly unaware of the world with his toy, he looks like he could just be chatting with friends or maybe reading something interesting it's just that he is not. He could be typing 'they all fall down.' His favourite phrase after a job was done. _

Sherlock had to look away at the thought that maybe in his presence the order to kill several people was being given. He remembered the first time he had heard that phrase from Jim.

Sherlock's was woken by the sound of someone talking softly, it was what he felt in the middle of the night. He felt empty and found Jim missing. Sherlock felt uneasy, it was unlike Jim to leave bed in the middle of the night, he always feared it would wake Sherlock which it did. Sherlock got up and went into the next room sleepily to find Jim standing before the window with his back to Sherlock. He was wearing his deep red dressing gown which fluttered in the cold wind coming from the open window. The only light in the room was coming from the laptop on the table beside the window. Jim was evidently working. A slight change came over Jim as he became aware of Sherlock's presence.

"They all fall down." He said softly before disconnecting the line and turning to face Sherlock apologetically.

"I'm sorry."

"Come back to bed, you'll catch a cold." Sherlock said drowsily.

Without another word Jim put his I-phone beside the laptop and went with him.

Seven people were found dead in and around London in the next few days, all criminals, two of them most wanted and two homeless teen amateurs.

What followed though was anybody's nightmare.

An Atlantic cruise ship carrying almost two thousand passengers exploded mid-way killing all passengers. Terrorist activity was suspected. Of course it was. But the man who made it possible for them was sitting beside Sherlock and having his breakfast nonchalantly when the news was being telecast on the large screen in the dining room. Sherlock's breath hitched in disbelief as he looked at him. Seeing Sherlock stare Jim had only taken the remote control and switched of the television.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment at the memory. He opened them to look at Jim's hands still holding that I-phone. _So much blood on those small, pale, soft hands. _His gaze involuntarily went up to Jim's tie. _Blood. _

"You don't like it?" Jim asked sensing Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock looked up to him in a daze. Jim started to untie it looking into Sherlock's eyes. He took it off and threw it out the window. He opened two buttons of his shirt to make the look more casual. The almost healed but still slightly crimson wounds peaked out. Jim looked at Sherlock for approval.

_No matter what you do Jim, blood will always follow you and so me. _Sherlock turned away his gaze outside again, a deep sigh escaping his chest.

Sensing Sherlock's thoughts Jim felt dreadful. He was taking Sherlock away from those _thoughts_ to his favourite place, this was not supposed to be happening. With one or two final flicks of his fingers on the I-phone he put it aside and drew himself close to Sherlock. He placed one hand on Sherlock's knee and looked at him longingly. Sherlock did not turn but he stretched his hand over the back of the seat so Jim could rest his head on his shoulder. The rest of the journey was passed in silence.

Jim could feel relief and containment almost seeping through Sherlock's veins when the Limo entered the naturally ornamented gates of the house. As soon as the car stopped in front of the house Sherlock stepped out not waiting for the chauffer to open the door. He inhaled deeply and the fresh clean air with the smells of rocks and grass and heath cleansed through him. A contended smile crept on his face. He felt a soft small hand on his own. He grabbed it tightly and pulled the man into his arms. A black Audi had also entered the gate stealthily and a tall athletic man in a black suit had gotten out of it. He was now standing beside the opened front door of the house. His eyes couldn't be seen for the glares he was wearing. He was the man Jim trusted with his and Sherlock's life with. Sebastian.

Sherlock walked into the house with Jim in his arms. Unlike their London house this one was contemporarily furnished. It was all stainless steel, black leather, glass and granite. They crossed the large white living space and hallway all the way to the end where the spiral glass staircase led to the other floor. Not many rooms on this floor, the largest being the bedroom. Sherlock let go of Jim as soon as he stepped in. The stony walls, the white bed and just beside it the floor to ceiling full glass window, through which the breath-taking view of the green moors, dark mountains and clear sky could be seen. The curtains of this window were never drawn, the view always unhindered. _God! Have I missed this. _Thought Sherlock, he felt Jim slowly taking his coat off trying not to break his trance. Then he slowly wrapped his arms around Sherlock from behind resting his palms on his chest and pressing the side of his face to his back. Sherlock was still engrossed in the view, his hands over his lips, fingertips touching as if praying, then he felt Jim's body heat creeping over his back. He turned and saw Jim was in a similar trance, only his view was Sherlock. He had already discarded his shoes with socks. Sherlock did the same. Sherlock put a hand on the side of Jim's face. Jim closed his eyes, a slight tremor went through him. It was all about this silent moments of anticipation between them, they mattered more than what was to come. They thrived in these moments of suspense and breath taking agony of waiting. Even their love making was like a wound that seeped slowly but continuously. Sherlock waited until Jim opened his eyes again only to make them close again by putting his lips firmly on his. Jim outlined Sherlock's cupid brow with the tip of his tongue. As he finished he met the tip of Sherlock's tongue which was waiting for him. They let their tongues play along as Sherlock slowly put his hands under Jim's coat and took it of gently. Then he turned his attention to Jim's calf buttons one by one on both hands, without breaking the kiss. He lightly stroked the veins of Jim's wrists with his fingertips making him shiver. He guided Jim's limp hands to his collar and withdrew a bit from the man. Jim unbuttoned his shirt gently, attentively, all the while looking into his eyes. He had to open the buttons on Sherlock's trousers to tug his shirt loose. He pushed the shirt off Sherlock's shoulders and let it fall to the ground. As soon as he was done Sherlock placed both his hands on the sides of Jim's face again. Then his hands slid to his neck and at last on his chest opening the shirt lightly. Jim's bruised chest peeked out. Sherlock stopped. Jim nervously put a hand on Sherlock's hand, gaze questioning, he dreaded that the bruises may have put him off. But Sherlock slowly stepped closer and put his forehead to Jim's, drawing a relieved breath from the man and tugged off his shirt. He ran his hands along Jim's bare torso warmly. Jim's eyes were half closed in pleasure. Sherlock kissed his temple and ran down kisses towards his shoulder. He kissed and nipped at the round, delicate shoulder for some time. He went back the way he came and gave similar attention to Jim's chin for an agonizingly long time. Jim held onto Sherlock's sides with both hands, this was Sherlock's technic, he would be so close to a spot which was craving his attention but instead of going there he would concentrate on some other part agonizingly close to it. Like he was doing right now. Both Jim's lips and his neck were begging for Sherlock's attention, yet Sherlock was completely engrossed with Jim's chin, the place in between. This was Sherlock's torture. This was Sherlock's game. This is how he drove Jim insane. When it became unbearable, when the other parts of Jim's body started claiming attention fervently Jim had to moan softly and press Sherlock's sides coaxingly. With one small final bite he let go of the insignificant part of Jim's body over which he was showering all his attention till then. He ran both his index fingers along the hem of Jim's trousers from front to his back. Then he abruptly tugged him by the front making him lean closer and gasping at the sudden move. Sherlock's full attention was on his belt and buttons now and with one swift motion he stripped Jim off his trousers. He tugged Jim closer by the hem of his underwear and held him in his arms, nuzzled his neck furiously and then licked from the sternum up to his chin and spoke in his ear in a seductive baritone which alone could make Jim come undone. "Mark me".

Jim trembled, half in pleasure, half in surprise. He never dared to mark Sherlock, though he wanted it so badly, he knew Sherlock won't approve of it. Today he was given permission. Without losing a second more he nibbled at Sherlock's pale neck, sucking intently, whole heartedly, like his life depended on it. At the exact moment Sherlock slid his palms inside Jim's boxers and clasped his buttocks making Jim squirm.

When Jim withdrew carefully Sherlock took his hands to his unbuttoned trouser and put Jim's fingers inside the hem of his boxers motioning downwards. Slowly Jim took both the pants down going on his knees on the floor in the process. Sherlock stepped out of them and pulled Jim up grabbing him by his hair. He turned Jim around and pushed him on the plush white bed behind. Jim was already panting with anticipation, Sherlock didn't follow him immediately. Jim propped himself up on his elbows looking at Sherlock who with a mischievous smile loomed over him leaning on his hands to Jim's sides on the bed. Then ducking his head in one deliciously slow motion he licked Jim from his half erected manhood to his forehead making him moan. Then he didn't stop. He kept licking Jim all over. His face, his neck, his sensitive sides, his chest, nipples, lower abdomen avoiding only the navel and the now fully erected manhood. Sherlock drew small circles with his tongue tip all over Jim's stomach avoiding the navel, he did the same thing with his fingers on Jim's thighs. Jim grabbed the sheets in pleasure and frustration, tilted his head and groaned. Sherlock was doing it _again_. Pulse rate, heartbeat, breathing, Jim knew nothing, except Sherlock's skilful tongue and hands tantalizingly close to the spots which were screaming for attention. Sensing Jim's urgency Sherlock finally dipped his tongue lightly in his navel making him squirm again. It was tantalizing beyond expectation. Just when Jim was expecting Sherlock's tongue to invade that little space again he felt the tip of Sherlock's manhood trying to invade the small hollow. His breath hitched and he held tightly to the covers. He felt goose bumps arise all over him. Before he could recover he felt Sherlock's mouth on him, sucking oh so gently. Jim felt Sherlock was going to kill him today with his slow ministrations. He felt Sherlock's hands on his hips which he suddenly withdrew and placed on Jim's knees pushing them up, gaining access to the long incision between the legs. He left Jim's shaft to give his full attention to that incision, licking softly, prying it open further with his tongue, biting around it, driving Jim crazy. When Jim almost felt senseless with pleasure Sherlock suddenly came up on him, crushing Jim's body under his weight, making him moan louder. Flexing his hips Sherlock put them together and started moving. Holding Jim's head in both hands, elbows beside his head, studying deeply every reaction, every expression, every bead of sweat on the face, enjoying the show. Jim was moaning, gasping, whimpering, biting his lips, opening and closing his eyes alternatively at every friction. It was maddening, it was extraordinary, it was _Sherlock. _Jim stroked Sherlock's sides tenderly until the final moment. He knew Sherlock always needed a nudge. So when it was time he stopped stroking and sunk his nails in Sherlock's sides, careful not to draw blood. Sherlock was panting, face flushed, curls astray, sweat beads on his forehead, Sherlock came undone. As if on cue whispering Sherlock's name Jim found his release. They held each other through after quakes of orgasm. After a while Sherlock nuzzled Jim's neck and bit it softly. Jim understood the well-known gesture. Sherlock was not done yet.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was literally eating Jim's neck. Jim was ecstatic knowing that there would be many love marks on him. _Love marks_, unlike those which were fading on the other parts of his body. He was holding Sherlock close with one hand on his back and the other lost in his curls. Sherlock was groping Jim's sides to keep his wriggling body in place as he went down to his chest and stayed there licking, biting, sucking for which seemed to Jim like forever. Suddenly he stopped and trailed his prominent nose up and down Jim's neck. Another implication to which Jim reacted in a trained manner. He freed his hands from Sherlock and searched under the pillow, the lube was there. The housekeeper was doing a good job. Sherlock hoisted himself a bit so their bodies were not touching and started nibbling at Jim's earlobe. Jim rubbed the bottle in both his hands gasping. Then took some into his hands and found Sherlock between their heated bodies. He rubbed Sherlock with it gently, drawing a contended moan from his man, then he spread his hands like wings on both sides. Sherlock pinned his wings to the bed with force, making him wince. _More love marks_. He licked Jim's face and neck with precision making Jim shiver. He nudged between Jim's legs with his to make him spread. He kissed Jim deeply for some moments and then slid two fingers in his mouth. Jim licked them as wetly as possible. Their eyes locked, Sherlock started to draw his fingers in and out slowly as Jim lapped at them. Sherlock unknowingly opened his mouth every time he put his fingers in. He stroked Jim's tongue and explored his mouth like he was fascinated by it. It was again agonizing anticipation for Jim. He knew what was to come, he was ready for it. But again Sherlock was buying time. Suddenly Sherlock withdrew his fingers and dipping his head started licking Jim's throbbing manhood up and down making Jim almost jump. No matter how long he had been with Sherlock nothing could prepare him for his sudden moves, this was Sherlock's advantage and Jim's undoing. Sherlock put both his fingers almost simultaneously inside Jim while continuing to lick. Jim flinched. Sherlock started rolling his fingers, thrusting, going deeper, scraping the sweet spot over and over again. Jim didn't hold back the sounds that were escaping his mouth, Sherlock liked them. He put his hands in Sherlock's hair, tugging them, entwining in them, pulling them, he knew he had to plead soon or else Sherlock would just continue his torture, Sherlock had immense control, over himself and over Jim.

"Sherlock…please…" a faint gasping whisper from Jim.

Sherlock's own need was rising, he was on the point of forcing Jim to beg. So when he did, he obliged quickly. Withdrawing for a moment he positioned him and pushed himself half into Jim in one smooth motion. Jim pulled at his hair a bit more roughly, bit his lips stifling a moan. Sherlock started lapping and biting his nipples as he pushed further in. Jim forgot everything, where he was, what he was, who he was, the only thing he remembered was Sherlock, the full filling of having Sherlock inside him, Sherlock moving his hand up and down his length while sucking at his nipples and grinding himself into Jim over and over again touching the sweet spot. The universe was made of Sherlock, of Sherlock's touch, smell, warmth and his force. Jim existed only through them, by them, in them. They had established a rhythm of their own, they created it when they moved together like now, meeting each other eagerly with each thrust.

"Jim…Jim…"

A panting whisper from an erratically thrusting Sherlock. He was asking for that nudge from the sinking ship that was Jim. Jim tried hard to gain enough focus to give him that little thing. He loosened his grip on Sherlock's hair for once and ran his nails scraping his back. That was enough. Sherlock poured himself in Jim as he kissed him on the mouth, Jim followed right behind moaning into the kiss. Sherlock sank on top of Jim burying his face in the crook of Jim's neck. Jim gave a light kiss on Sherlock's neck, panting. Sherlock didn't take himself out of Jim. An unspoken message. He wanted more.

"Turn over." Came the command in the baritone after they came back to their senses again.

Jim obliged, careful not to break the contact. Sherlock cupped him in his long arms, kissed his neck feverishly and started moving again. Jim trembled, with pleasure, with ecstasy, with tiredness. He rubbed his face in the pillow beneath when he felt Sherlock licking his back propped up on his elbows. Slowly Sherlock snaked an arm beneath Jim and got hold of his manhood and started pumping. Jim's mind was giving away, he felt delirious, he started chanting Sherlock's name with every thrust as if it was the only thing keeping him on earth. Sherlock was sucking the skin behind his ear making him squirm, his hands were grasping the covers on the bed now. He kept giving himself in, he kept taking in pleasure. His mind had no thoughts left, his body no strength, his heart with no other emotion than love for Sherlock. Sherlock's breathing became ragged, thrusts increasingly erratic, Jim himself was panting. He could take no more. He screamed out Sherlock's name and let himself fall. Sherlock followed suit. He lay on top of him holding him close until the aftershocks faded. Then he pulled himself out gently and lay beside Jim. Jim turned and lay on his back looking at a tried but contended and glowing Sherlock. He loved himself for being the cause of that.

Sherlock was sleeping. His breathing was deep, pulse slow but steady and his heartbeat normal. Jim was propped on pillows holding him in his arms. Sherlock's arms were wrapped around him, head resting on his chest. Jim was looking out the window as the light started to fade. He was listening to Sherlock, like he always did. He was listening to his breathing, his heartbeat, his pulse, his blood running through the veins, his random twitching of limbs. It was rarely like this. Jim was always the one to rest his head on Sherlock's chest. He cherished these days. Cherished knowing that Sherlock had made love to him, that he won't regret it when he woke up, that the rest of the time would be spent in languid chatter and childish frolics. Knowing he would have Sherlock just the way he wanted and nothing would interrupt that. He was away, away where he wanted to be, he was happy with Jim and he was not _thinking_. He felt like he was holding a beating heart in his arms, his heart. It would continue to beat as long as Sherlock. Jim released a breath of relief and held Sherlock closer. Sherlock loved the view from the window. He would spend hours silently looking out as the light changed, colour changed, winds changed. Just like Jim would watch him. Sherlock was to Jim what this view was to Sherlock. He didn't need to look at the mountains, the way light and shadow played over it all day, he would just watch Sherlock, his face, how the light sometimes made his cheeks look more hollowed than they actually are, how sometimes his cheekbones would stand out too prominently making the rest of the face look like a valley. There was no other scenery more attractive, more serene, more captivating, more haunting than Sherlock. How the shadow of his prominent nose would change with the light, the shadows his eyelids cast on those slope like cheekbones, his skin as smooth as a river flows, his eyes as calm and deep and pure as a loch, the densest forest of curly locks casting shadows on the plains of the pale forehead, one or two bowing down over it, between the Cupid's bow and the plush softness underneath was the deepest darkest natural cave in which anybody could be lost and never found. Jim had the good fortune to venture in it every time, lose himself and be found by the valley again. The valley which was Sherlock. Jim could watch Sherlock all day, every day, his entire life. Every single scenario that nature had created was present in Sherlock's body. The plains, the ocean, the forest, hills, desert, moors, lakes, valleys everything. Jim had everything he needed to sustain his life in Sherlock. He could breathe his smell, drink his voice, savour his taste and live. But Sherlock would tire of it. He didn't comprehend completely how much or what exactly Jim felt about him. Jim sighed.

Jim realised stroking Sherlock's curls that the man needed to eat. It had been a long journey and laborious love making. He didn't want to wake Sherlock but he felt concerned. He took the land phone from the bedside table and ordered to keep the food ready. Jim knew his voice would wake Sherlock. As soon as he started to speak Sherlock's breathing changed. When he put the phone down he looked up at Jim blearily.

"You okay?" he asked in a husky voice still sleepy.

"Yes." Jim said smiling and stroking his hair. "You need to eat."

To which Sherlock replied with a groan and hid his face in Jim's chest again. Jim rubbed his scalp with his fingers for a while and then climbed out of his reluctant embrace to get the robes. He got to the small closet at the corner of the room and took out two cashmere robes. Putting on the dark maroon one he bought the pale blue one to Sherlock, all the while feeling his eyes on his entire body.

"You look thinner." Said Sherlock getting up and taking the robe.

"I've been doing much exercise lately." Jim said smiling and turning away, Sherlock grabbed him from behind and nuzzled his neck saying,

"Can't help it."

His voice against his skin evoked goose bumps again. He held Sherlock's hands which were wrapped around him and said leaning into him,

"I don't ever want you to help it."

Sherlock kissed Jim's temple and held him closer.

"You really should eat something."

"You too." He said turning Jim around to face him. He took his face in his hands.

"You haven't slept. Have you." Jim never slept on such occasions, he was just too overwhelmingly contended for that. His otherwise well maintained hair was out of place, spiked here and there, his large dark eyes were shining, he looked tired, younger and happy. Sherlock sighed.

"What do you want to eat?" Jim said looking at Sherlock affectionately, noticing the love bite on his elegant pale neck, placing a hand on his.

"Something sweet…no make that some sweet things…chocolate maybe." He said letting go of Jim.

"Do you want to take a bath first?"

"It could wait."

_He's really hungry. _

Jim knew what Sherlock would be asking for to eat. He had already ordered for him.

A dark chocolate pastry, a bowl of chocolate pudding and a bath later Sherlock was engrossed in the book racks on the walls of the reading room walls, still wearing nothing but the robe. Jim watched him as he moved along the racks, occasionally taking a book out, opening it, finding something he was looking for or taking out a book they had read before, reading a line from it smiled at Jim remembering. He was used to Jim's gaze, it didn't make him uncomfortable anymore. Neither did Jim need the pretext of reading. They were complete at ease with each other, completely accepting, completely in tune with each other's habits. Jim knew that Sherlock was really not looking for a book to read, he was really deducing if there was any change in this room, at the same time going all over the house in his mind to find the same.

_Dracula: A Biography of Vlad the Impeller 1431-1476. _

"Felt a bit historically inclined." Chimed Jim noticing Sherlock had found the only book that wasn't there last time. Last time being more than over a year.

Sherlock wanted to ignore the book as soon as he had found it. He didn't even want Jim to notice that he had found it. But it was impossible to fool the man who could even detect a slight change in his breathing pattern sitting metres away from him.

"Music?"

At Sherlock's suggestion the rest of the evening was spent with Bach, Debussy and Mozart. They were sitting by the fire. Jim in a plush black armchair, Sherlock on the floor leaning his back to Jim, eyes closed. Jim was massaging Sherlock's shoulders and head. There was that comfortable silence between them.

"When do we have to leave?" Sherlock asked, trying to keep the reluctance out of his voice.

"It would be good if we can leave next week."

_A week. Only one week of relief then back. Back to the life I don't want to wake up to anymore. Waking up to the undeniable facts and logics of why this life was not worth living. Of guilt, of pain, of abhorrence._

"We can stay longer if you want."

"Forever?" Whispered Sherlock knowing the answer, he himself won't be able to take this tranquillity for long, he knew very well.

Jim didn't answer. He kissed Sherlock's curls.


	7. Chapter 7

**Please review, it'll help me to write.**

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When Sherlock first met Jim he didn't have very high thoughts about his intellect. Apart from the fact that Jim was vaguely interesting he didn't give Jim's presence much importance. He wanted to deduce why this timid looking shy boy was abhorred by all, maybe he played mean tricks on others, maybe he badmouthed, maybe he hit. Little did he know that he would be found to be far more interesting than the surface showed. And infinitely more intelligent, devilishly so. When Jim started to appear at his doorstep every day Sherlock took it as flattery, he thought Jim wanted to be with him because he was mesmerized by his intellect, because he wanted to stand out. Gradually he found out Jim didn't need his intellect to stand out, neither Sherlock's intellect could captivate him because he had enough if not more in his own mind. He could be Sherlock's worst competitor or his best friend. Somehow he chose to be the second. Sherlock was glad for it, he wouldn't have gained and enjoyed it as much as he did if it was the other way around. Sherlock knew Jim was a chemistry student, yet he knew more about law than Sherlock did. He was as interested in everything else as Sherlock was. Be it science of history, as long it was enriching Jim was up to it. He was among the best students of the college and university and not because of the fear he created. He was as much genius as Sherlock was in his own right. Together they stood out. Together they remained. One thing that hindered this union from becoming perfect was the difference of stance. They were so very different in their logic in which way use their intellect. Sherlock wanted to use it towards greater good of mankind, for Jim mankind didn't matter, Sherlock was the only human being he was actually capable of feeling toward. He didn't even count in himself. He could inflict as much harm on himself as on others. He simply didn't care. There had been many a times when they fought over, discussed, debated this issue of stance, Jim always won. He had theories and logics Sherlock could never cut through. Jim knew what he did, he was not ashamed of it and he was sure of it. Sherlock on the other hand was not sure why he felt otherwise except the explanation that Jim gave "you just can't get over that little good bad notion that this society tries to ingrain in us. I'm above it, you're not. That's just it."

And Jim never tried to push Sherlock, which Sherlock always did. Such debates were always initiated by Sherlock and ended by Jim. There were times when Sherlock would get infuriated, he would refuse to talk to Jim, avoid him for days, yell at him and even manhandle him. But Jim was always calm and logical with his answers. Nothing swayed him and nothing swayed him from Sherlock.

That's how even with that basic difference of opinion they still stayed together for so long when other couples would have called it quits stating "irreconcilable differences." But every now and then Sherlock had to face the same dilemma and Jim had to face the same questions.

Today after taking long walks on the moors, tired, they rested under a tree. Sherlock was leaning with his back to the trunk, one leg folded, knee upward and the other spread before him on which Jim was resting his head, sprawled on the warm green grass. It was a little past afternoon, the air was balmy and there was silence except for the rustling of the leaves. Sherlock was looking up at the sky through the wide spread branches of the tree. He loved the scent of the tree, heath and the other faint fragrances that the air was carrying. His mind was distant from the present though. He was lost in thoughts. Thoughts which Jim knew would call for his answers once again.

"Why me Jim?" Sherlock asked breaking the silence in a faraway voice.

"Because you are me." Jim said readily.

"In what sense?"

"In every sense."

None of them were looking at each other. Jim was wearing shades rendering it impossible to see through him. Gauging Sherlock's silence Jim felt he needed to elaborate.

"We both have capabilities beyond ordinary people, we both are loathed by them, we both care less about what 'others' think of us. You are the only one who would stay with me Sherlock. Despite knowing me, despite knowing that everybody else either hated or feared me. You are the only one capable and willing to take the burden of hatred along with me. we are the same Sherlock. You are just on the wrong side."

"People would say quite the contrary."

"You are not among those people, are you Sherlock? If you were you would not ever be with me. I would have never intrigued you. You would have never been able to love me."

"Yet I don't support you."

"No. you don't. I told you, you were on the wrong side."

"Why?"

"Because you _care_. You care about the people who never knew you, never appreciated you and would have rather stomped you given the opportunity. You are on the wrong side because you care to make the world a better place."

"What's wrong in that?"

"The world will never be a happy place Sherlock because of these people you are so concerned about. There would always be people prying on each other, people would never be contended with what they have, people would fight to show their strength, people would always bring destruction onto themselves."

"What's the point in aggravating it?"

"Nothing. Just like there's no point in trying to stop it."

"Then why do it?" there was impatience in Sherlock's voice now.

"What's the point in doing anything Sherlock? Because we have to do something. Either this one or that. Because we have to make ourselves useful to feel good."

Sherlock took a deep breath knowing he had lost the argument again.

"Stop caring Sherlock. You'll see there's no good or bad."

"That'll include you too." He said with a smirk.

"We can never stop caring about each other Sherlock. Because we are one. We are bound. It comes with the package, like breathing." Sherlock gave a small sad laugh. Jim looked up to him smiling.

"We are the only two of our species on earth, how could we not care? No wonder you could never kill me. You would be so alone without me."

Jim said it nonchalantly. Death hardly frightened him. He led a dangerous life and never even carried a gun with himself. But Sherlock couldn't take it as nonchalantly. He looked at Jim with a grave face. Of course he couldn't kill Jim, after what he did for him for all those years. Jim meant everything to him.

Why he couldn't kill himself? Well that was another story altogether.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry for late! just the internet is giving me a hard time!**

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The rest of the days were spent in losing and finding each other in each other over and over again.

Jim would lose himself walking with Sherlock on the moors at the back of the house and find himself pushed against the granite wall, pinned by Sherlock at his back and being pounded.

Sherlock would lose himself lying on a marble bench face down, Jim straddling his back massaging fragrant oil into his back. He would find himself turning under Jim and grabbing him by the arms pinning him chest to chest and then smearing the same oil into his back.

They would find each other sitting on the edge of the large stone fountain, wrapped in nothing but a duvet, legs stretched out before them. Jim leaning with his back to Sherlock's chest cocooned in his arms and legs. They would be lost in their thoughts again.

Sherlock would find himself reading a book lying on the sofa in the reading room, Jim stretched under him, arms wrapped around him resting his head on the hand of the sofa lost in thoughts.

Jim would find himself lying on his stomach facing Sherlock on a mattress before the fire. He would find Sherlock sitting beside him, his back resting on the foot board of the bed engrossed in him. He would find Sherlock's finger making small circles on his bare skin just under the buttock. He would see the light dancing on the plains of Sherlock's pale, smooth, toned body. He would lose himself in the sensations again.

They would find themselves dancing madly to Elvis Presley and rolling all over laughing until they cried.

They would find themselves on the bed wrapped around each other looking out the window as the sun rose.

Jim found himself sitting on the bed propped up on the pillows, Sherlock stretched on his lap face buried in his lap. They both found each other sobbing silently on this last day of their stay.

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**I'll try to upload another chapter today. A review a day keeps the writer's block away! so please review.**


	9. Chapter 9

Review please!

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And then they were back.

To reality. To problems. To differences. To anger. To trying to cope up. To trying to understand. To wanting to escape. To wanting to bind. To the real world where they always stood opposite each other. A life which they could neither deny nor accept. To whatever their coexistence was.

A week had passed since their romantic rendezvoused with Yorkshire. Things were better though, better than the time they had decided upon the vacation. So far Sherlock didn't have any difficult days and was contended with his work and Jim. Jim was able to keep a discreet profile in front of Sherlock. So far.

Sherlock was neither a wishful thinker nor a fool. He knew Jim had not and never would change, he was just keeping a low profile regarding his work just to keep Sherlock in good humor. He was making an immense effort in order to keep Sherlock in the dark about his dealings. He was so far successful and so was Sherlock, he was doing a good job of pretending to ignore the issues which plagued their relationship. The truth is that they both knew that this facade won't last long. It was just the calm before the storm. It would take just a small push to tip them off balance again. So when Jim approached Sherlock about a formal dinner party at their place, fully aware how Sherlock hated these things he braced himself for the storm. If Sherlock was opposed to it he would just arrange it elsewhere. This was important. This was for the social mask he wore around to hide the antisocial face. This was the occasion when he reminded all those who mattered of his omnipresence.

Sherlock smiled and agreed.

Sherlock hated these events. He hated being displayed in public by Jim. He hated how in these parties people would try to flatter him to keep themselves in the good books of Jim Moriarty. He hated the false smiles plastered on those faces and those false praises that came out of those mouths. He hated being looked up in awe as _Moriarty's boyfriend_. He hated being reminded that no matter what the real equation inside their household were, in front of the world he was Jim's personal property. He was under his control, bent by his power, trapped in his life and used for his pleasure. He hated being reminded that there was no way out. There had been many times before when Sherlock had refused to these events. He even had avoided these parties on several occasions. But this time, he agreed hiding his inward reluctance. Partly because he still felt guilty about the last incident and partly because he wanted to reciprocate, he was tired of fighting the inevitable. Fighting Jim was like fighting his own shadow. Jim was just like his shadow, always on the opposite, dark, illusive but as real as he himself. Whatever he was Jim was exactly the opposite, thus being the only counterpart. It was what it was and what it would be. He wanted to resign to what apparently was fate. Ill and permanent. He hadn't been able to refute Jim's last arguments about why things were the way they were and wondered if he ever would be. He didn't want to run anymore knowing full well that he would end up just where he stood. Right opposite Jim. It was odd, they were a couple who didn't stand together. Always opposite each other. They had taken their stand decisively and they had to keep them till death. He braced himself to go through something that was once initiated by him and now was out of his hands.

His life with Moriarty.


	10. Chapter 10

**Thank you for the lovely reviews! please keep encouraging me please!**

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Sherlock wore a midnight blue suit with a burgundy shirt inside. He was fixing his calf buttons when he saw Jim's reflection in the closet mirror. He was standing behind him, looking at Sherlock's reflection in the mirror with a look of awe and disbelief.

"What's wrong?" Asked Sherlock frowning.

"I'm not sure if I want to take you down stairs anymore." Jim said swallowing and looking at him hesitantly.

_Then don't. _"Why?"

"You look impossibly gorgeous Sherlock." Jim said coming close to him. He pressed his forehead to Sherlock's back and closing his eyes deeply inhaled.

Sherlock sighed. Who would be mad enough to look at him for long? Leave alone flirting. Jim was just being possessive without any reason.

"There is reason." Jim said reading Sherlock's thoughts.

"You're the only thing that can be taken away from me." Jim said circling his hands protectively around Sherlock. "I don't possess anything else."

"Your guests are waiting Jim."

All eyes were on them when they descended the wide mahogany carpet covered stairs to come into the hall. Hand in hand, completely at ease with each other.

_Ah! There's press. _Sherlock thought disgusted. _Why did Jim need so much publicity? Wasn't he famous enough?_

"Reach, Sherlock." Jim whispered into his ears.

As they surfed through the people and a crowed started to gather around them Sherlock started to feel that well known bout of loneliness and anxiety. He started to feel lost. Jim was always carefully by his side. Never letting go of his hand, never letting anyone come up to him separately.

"I'm so glad you could make it ambassador."

"Oh I always look forward to your parties Mr Moriarty. Mr Holmes thank you so much for taking my grand -daughter's case, it is a rather private affair as you can understand.'

_Asking for compensation from one while being impregnated by some other. Of course it is private ambassador. _ "Don't mention it." Sherlock said with a fake smile.

"Ah! Mr Moriarty! Mr Holmes the most beloved couple in all London! when are we getting to hear the happy announcement?!" Chimed a press reporter, trying her best to impress Jim but failing miserably.

"I'm sure you would find out when it happens because it would be a big announcement and there would be a whole crowed of press, be sure you tuck yourself in somewhere."

"Is it expected soon then?" asked a man standing next to Jim who did not look like a journalist to Sherlock, he didn't recognize him. Jim would never let anyone from the press stand so close to him. It would rather be someone who needed a quick talk and a _small_ favour from Jim which Jim was ready to do in exchange of something.

"Probably." Jim said looking at the man and kissing Sherlock's knuckles.

_What?! _ Sherlock's breath hitched as he felt his hand withdrawing from Jim's hold unconsciously.

Jim turned to look at him at the loss of the contact and found Sherlock receding backwards with utter disbelief and shock in his countenance. Betrayal, angst and hurt in his eyes. Jim's face fell he tried to run towards him but just then a group of important people came and almost surrounded him. Sherlock took the distraction in his stride and swiftly walked to a rather remote corner of the hall. He sat at a small bar at the corner. He realised he was panting, his palms were sweaty and his throat had gone dry. He wanted to go straight upstairs and lock himself in the room. But he couldn't muster the strength at the moment and it would cause a scene. He tried to calm himself by running his hands through his well brushed hair, messing it.

"Here, drink this." A gruff masculine voice came from beside him. Sherlock was too preoccupied to see if there were other people around him. He turned and found a man of his age, well groomed, tall, handsome with smooth black hair and hazel eyes extending a glass of wine towards him. He took the glass and the man spoke again.

"Man! You sure are worth it." he looked Sherlock up and down as if measuring him. Appreciation, greed and lust in his eyes.

"Pardon me?" Sherlock asked not following.

"Worth a man like Moriarty. I'm not much different you know? " He said with a smug smile and lust filled eyes.

_Great! Exactly what I needed after that! A man hitting on me. Doesn't know what he's getting himself into. _

"Excuse me." Sherlock got up uneasily. He wanted to be away before Jim found him there. God knows what he'll make of it if he sees him with this man in an almost isolated corner. God knows what he'll do if he finds this man hitting on him. He stood up wanting to hurry back only to find Jim standing in front.

"Jim! I was just…" Sherlock was cut short as Jim held his face in his hands firmly and placed a rough kiss on his mouth. Sherlock could feel something was wrong. Something was very very wrong.

_He saw it!. _Sherlock gasped.

"Let's go back." Jim said softly and pushed Sherlock gently towards the party. Before turning to follow him Jim threw the man at the bar a look. A look which could be felt with all five senses.

A look which felt _death_.


	11. Chapter 11

**Please review, your views and encouragements are necessary for me to keep writing.**

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"Sherlock, we both know I would _never_ do anything like that without consulting with you."

"Then why go ahead and announce it in front of everyone without speaking to me?!" Sherlock yelled. He could barely contain his anger.

Jim was sitting on the couch in the living area which led to their bedroom. He held his head in his hands and drew them together covering his face in frustration. Sherlock was angry. The situation had again gone wrong after so many attempts to stabilize it on both their parts. The fact that Jim himself was practically furious and trying very hard to hide it was not helping the situation in any way.

"That. Was. Not. An. Announcement." He said trying to swallow his own anger and make peace with Sherlock.

"Telling one person that it 'may' happen sometime soon is not an announcement Sherlock." He said putting his hands away from his face, still not looking at Sherlock. Seeing Sherlock's anger would further infuriate him. He never understood why Sherlock was so opposed to putting a legal sanction on their relationship. Not that it really mattered to him, he could make or break any law any day any time. But he needed this as an assurance, that Sherlock was his, mentally, physically, socially, legally. It would also help the face that vile creatures like the one at the party would make no further attempts on him. Being his boyfriend was not enough, it lacked total control. People still thought Sherlock had a choice, he would choose someone else if he came across someone he liked and therefore kept flinging themselves in his path. If they were married others would get the impression that there is no way in anymore. That Sherlock has chosen and chosen for life. Very few people dared to cross paths with Moriarty's boyfriend, they were taken care of, _none_ would dream to _think_ about _Moriarty's husband_ in any such way. Tonight's incident had only helped to cement this logic in Jim's brain. Jerk's like those thought they had a chance, that they could seduce Sherlock. Just because he was still a boyfriend, they could just whisk him away and make him theirs. They thought Sherlock could be tossed around. How could Sherlock not see this? How could he not know what Jim was trying to shield Sherlock from such vile thoughts? How could he not see that these lowlifes thought that Jim was not that sure or serious about him? How could he let himself be lowered in someone's thoughts like that? Jim's thoughts darkened as well as his face.

"It was necessary Sherlock. There were too many people…"

"SO WHAT JIM?" Sherlock screamed at the top of his voice.

"THOSE people KNEW I was with you! I was YOURS! Your private property on which nobody could trespass! What else were you trying to establish!" Sherlock was panting standing close to Jim, eyes red and furious, hands trembling with rage.

Sherlock's scream broke the dam and Jim's anger spilled. He got up swiftly startling Sherlock and grabbing him by his throat pinned him to the wall closest to them with so much force that Sherlock flinched in pain. He grabbed Sherlock's hair in one hand tilting his head back, making him wince in pain again and pressed another hand on his stomach firmly keeping him pinned to the wall. Giving Sherlock no time to react he viciously bit his neck making him cry out in pain.

"Let me go!"

Sherlock tried to push him away with all the force he could muster. To which Jim responded with pressing his body forcefully to Sherlock making him further immobile. He growled ferociously, like an animal. The sound was not of pleasure it was of possession. Sherlock tried to get him off by tugging hardly at Jim's clothes but to no able, he gave an involuntary jerk as a sharp pain shot up to his brain. Jim loosened his grasp on him and gradually withdrew.

There was blood on Jim's lips. He was smiling maniacally.

A slow stream of blood was seeping from the fresh wound on the long pale neck of his lover. The contrast looked beautiful. Sherlock looked at Jim's face horrified. He didn't remember Jim hitting him before. That too with this much force and not for pleasure. They both were panting.

Jim licked the blood off his lips as he looked up to Sherlock's eyes. It made Sherlock's stomach turn. This was Jim Moriarty. The Moriarty world knew.

"You see that Sherlock?" Jim asked softly looking very pleased and smiling, pointing a finger at the wound.

"You are mine. I can and I will mark you in EVERY WAY!" Jim suddenly screamed the last two words making Sherlock flinch involuntarily. Jim's irises looked bigger, as if they would drown the person in front in the dark tidal waves heaving within.

He came near Sherlock again. His face devoid of any emotion. Sherlock was too stunned to move yet he tried to push him away. Ignoring his attempts Jim straightened Sherlock's clothes and glared at him for a moment. "You see Sherlock" he said in a honeyed voice looking affected and licking his lips. "I would make it impossible for anyone to come close to you again. I'm doing this for your own good. And mine also." Then he left.

Sherlock slept alone that night, a deep sense of foreboding engulfing him like the black duvet covering him. He didn't want to know where Jim went. He didn't want to know what he would do. He didn't want to know what tomorrow held for him. He didn't want to know anything.


	12. Chapter 12

**Is it too dark to review? C'mon we all have a bad particle in us! we all have Moriarty.**

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Sherlock woke with a throbbing pain in his neck. As he tried to shake off sleep the pain shot up making him wince. He was reminded of last night's incident. The first thing he felt was anger. It was turned to disgust slowly. At last he was filled with horror. Jim was nowhere to be seen. So was Sebastian.

Sherlock stared at his reflection in the closet mirror. There was an angry looking bite wound surrounded by the impressions of five fingers. The wound hurt. It was neglected and it was not healing. Sherlock put on a cravat to cover his wounded neck. Then pulled it off again. Sherlock poked it with a finger. It hurt. He smiled. _Marked territory. Why bother healing it? why bother hiding it? . _ He was marked anyway. Anybody who looked at him saw Moriarty's mark whether there was a wound or not.

In a way he felt he deserved it. He had unwittingly caused yet another death. A life taken because of him. Because the lack of his precaution. He knew, he knew what would happen if something like that happened. He shouldn't have left Jim's side, the matter could have waited. It did anyway. His whole reaction caused a man his life. God knows who he was, maybe he was in the lines of Moriarty also but that didn't lessen Sherlock's guilt. Uttering one or two flirty sentences towards someone could never be a justified reason for somebody's death no matter what they were. But this was Moriarty's world, he killed without any reason leave alone justified or not. Whatever he felt justified was so. Who would argue with him? Who could dissuade him? No one.

On his way to the office Sherlock remembered the time vividly when he was first faced with a situation like this. When he was first forced to fathom the depths of Moriarty's obsession for him. The first death caused by him, for him.

Peter. Peter Thompson was a tall lanky young man like Sherlock himself. He was an archaeology student at the university. A subject which infinitely interested Sherlock. Peter was a bit awkward, outcast and lonely himself. They had met in the university library looking for the same book dealing with lost historical relics. As Sherlock got hold of the book and went to the librarian he saw peter asking the librarian about the whereabouts of the book. Seeing it in the hands of Sherlock his face fell as if someone had taken away his candy. Sherlock laughed and took pity on him. After many fervent handshakes and grateful thank you Peter had taken the book. Sherlock had taken a liking to the boy, he found him amusing, appreciative and knowledgeable. He looked forward to having him as an acquaintance. Little did he know that he was no longer entitled to having friends or acquaintances. He came to knowing this fact in a miserable way.

They ended up chatting every day, catching up to what their new topic of debate was. Sherlock went to talk to him when Jim was busy. It was a welcome change for him from Jim's steady unflinching company. Nothing went unnoticed from Jim about Sherlock. Though it was only after two weeks that Jim inquired about it.

"That guy you met at the library…" he started leaning on the wall opposite Sherlock, in his room one fine afternoon, not looking at him.

"You mean Peter." Sherlock asked looking visibly happy at the mention of his new acquaintance. Surely Jim knew his name but he wanted to see Sherlock's expression. To say that he didn't like it would be an understatement.

"You seemed to have taken a liking for him." He said looking intensely at Sherlock, arms crossed on his chest, his expression blank.

"Yes, we're very much alike Jim. You must know that he is an archaeology student, but it's not just that, it seems that the same things interest us. " Sherlock said enthusiastically.

"Really?" Jim said sweetly completely masking his desire to burn the bloke alive.

Sherlock went on to explain how he never thought that he would meet anyone like themselves anymore, how peter was completely oblivious to the effect Jim produced on most people, how he would love to introduce them and make a group of three, the very different three. He went on and on not noticing the darkness that came over Jim's demeanour.

"Do you like him more than me Sherlock?" Jim asked in an ominous voice.

It made Sherlock look at his face. He was startled.

"Jim? No, of course not…you are…you are more than my friend and no one can come close to you…" Sherlock started as realisation dawned on him.

Jim stayed quiet. Looking away.

Sherlock got up and cupped Jim's sulking face in his hands.

"Jim, he's just a friend." He said soothingly.

"Why do you need friends? You have me."

Sherlock looked at Jim disapprovingly. He didn't like the fact that Jim was being unreasonable and jealous. He never expected this of him. Fine he was protective, but this was too much. This was suffocating.

"It is difficult to find like-minded people Jim, when we do we should respect them and take them into confidence." He said gravely letting go of Jim's face.

"Like-minded?" Asked Jim with a look of utter disbelief, as if it lowered Sherlock's standard to call someone like Peter like-minded.

Sherlock huffed in exasperation.

"Jim listen…" he began only to be cut off mid-sentence.

"Sherlock, anybody who is isolated for being peculiar or for not abiding by social rules is not and cannot be called like-minded, he cannot be one of us. It's impossible."

"He may not be as intelligent as us but he is not as idiotic as others also Jim."

"Not knowing why he should fear me? I think he is idiotic enough." Jim said laughing sarcastically.

Sherlock didn't like where this was going.

"Jim, don't do anything stupid. We just talk, that's all, we like talking over issues of mutual interest. He didn't even know me, I was the one to initiate the friendship."

"That's what worries me."

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Sherlock was completely unsuccessful in his attempts to make Jim see reason. He didn't know what was going on in Jim's mind but he started avoiding Peter as a precaution. Peter on the other hand unaware of what was going on tried to talk to Sherlock on several occasions. Instead he got to have a conversation with Jim Moriarty.

"You really like Sherlock don't you?" Jim asked Peter in a honeyed voice, smiling, looking very reassuring.

"He's my only friend." Said the completely unassuming, innocent, geeky boy of their age smiling gratefully at Jim.

Jim's face darkened and his smile vanished. His eyes became vicious as he looked deeply into the eyes of the boy who was a bit scared now and said

"No. he's mine."

Peter went missing suddenly and was nowhere to be found again. His parents, police and even private investigators couldn't find him. Jim remained unusually calm and unfazed during the whole time. Sherlock feared worst but Jim completely avoided the topic. Once he forced Jim too much and he broke down crying in front of him.

"Why do you always think the worst of me Sherlock? Whatever I do I do it for your own wellbeing. I love you. You just hate me, you just want to get rid of me, that's why you keep accusing me. Why are you blaming me if a moron half mad went missing suddenly? Haven't I always confessed to you when I had done something like that?"

It was almost impossible for Sherlock to believe that Jim didn't have a hand in it but Jim's words affected him a bit.

"You just want to hit me again, just because that boy left. You can Sherlock. Just don't hate me for something I haven't done." Jim said sobbing. Sherlock's anger ebbed.

After many years Jim had bought him again to the grounds near their university, as a part of their trip. Sherlock was feeling nostalgic and he was glad that Jim had bought him there. Jim had stopped under a tree, the heath was a bit heaved there. It looked like an unmarked grave. Jim had taken out a long stem white rose from his long coat's pocket and handed it to Sherlock. He took it and looked at Jim quizzically.

"This is our friend Peter's grave. He would like you to pay him some respect. Nobody else does." Jim said making a face.

The rose fell from Sherlock's hands. He stood dumbstruck.

"Oh! I didn't kill him Sherlock!" Jim said holding his hands up in surrender.

"He died of suffocation!" Jim said grabbing his own neck in his hands, putting out his tongue and making a gesture of suffocation.

"How…." Sherlock whispered dazed.

"No one can keep breathing under all that earth can they?"

Sherlock inhaled sharply as the horror hit him afresh. He knew he was about to witness something like that again within a few hours. God only knew what it would be this time. He felt sick as he got out of the car.


	13. Chapter 13

**Thank you! Special mention Van39MaxKatAlex4, you keep me writing!**

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The day was passed in a haze and Sherlock went through it unconsciously. He wanted to run, he wanted to hide, he would do anything to avoid going home. He would give anything to avert the horrid reality that waited at home for him. He decided to stay in his office for longer than necessary. But to no avail. It had only crossed fifteen minutes than his usual time when he saw Sebastian standing by his door. He had to go. Jim was waiting for him. Sherlock would gladly go with Sebastian if he had bought the news of his execution rather than taking him home. But Sherlock had lost the right to his own life. He couldn't live, Jim wouldn't let him die.

Jim was sitting cross legged on the sofa in the living area which led to their bedroom. The room was dimly lit making it gloomier, or was it just Sherlock's mind? Jim was in his bath robe only, hair still wet, he was pealing an apple. There were wine glasses on the table before him and a bottle of vintage wine. He looked up at Sherlock smiling sweetly as he entered the room already looking devastated.

"Hi honey! How was your day?" he asked in his devilishly honeyed voice.

Sherlock didn't reply, he stood in the doorway looking at Jim. Jim's smile faded. He put the apple and the peeler down and walked up to him not breaking eye contact. He stood inches away from Sherlock, his gaze travelled down from Sherlock's face to his neck. He reached out a hand and stroked the wound he had made last night. Sherlock's breath hitched in repulsion. He stood rigidly. Jim looked up at his face again, searching for answers in his eyes. He then opened the button of Sherlock's suit jacket and with slow seductive movements slid his hands underneath and pulled it off slowly never taking his eyes off him. He put it aside and held Sherlock's hands with both of his and pulled him slowly walking backwards. Sherlock followed feeling caged. Jim pushed him down on the sofa making him lie down, he pulled his legs on his lap slowly took of the shoes and socks. He then leaned closer so that their faces were inches away. Sherlock turned his face away as soon as he could feel Jim's breath. It only exposed his neck and the wound to Jim.

"You should have taken care of it Sherlock." Jim whispered in his ear. Sherlock winced.

"It's a good thing that human saliva has antibacterial elements." He said lapping at the wound. "And I don't have rabies."

Sherlock felt as if he was being devoured by a predator, he couldn't move, he couldn't escape. He felt sick again. With great restrain he spoke, managing to not to let his voice quiver.

"What have you done to him?"

"Mmm?" Jim said engrossed in his ministrations.

He left the wound moments later and pressed his forehead to Sherlock's.

"What I do to everybody else. Do you want to see?"

He sat up abruptly startling Sherlock, he pulled Sherlock to a sitting position beside him, smiling.

"Look." He said pointing to one of the two wine glasses on the table. He didn't take his eyes of Sherlock's face. This was the part he loved.

There were two undisturbed human eyeballs in the glass. Two dead blue irises staring at Sherlock. The precision with which they were scooped out indicated expert surgical removal. There was not a single drop of blood.

Jim looked on as Sherlock felt a bout of nausea and vertigo. His stomach turned so violently that he had to place his hand on it. He leaned back on the sofa breathing heavily.

_Another man dead because of me. Because he spoke to me, because I am Moriarty's, because I chose to be once and my fate was sealed._

Jim drank in the sight of Sherlock. His agitation for being cause of some miserable lowlife's death, his guilt, his sorrow and his self-loathing.

"You see what happens when you try to run away from me Sherlock?" he said making an apologetic face. "People die." He turned his lips downward in mocking sadness.

"You know what the fun part was?" He said looking like a child with a new toy. "He was still alive when I took these out."

Leaning forward he added.

"But they don't just die Sherlock." Jim's eyes gleamed with vicious desire.

"I take out what they extend towards you."

Sherlock felt as if Jim was exhaling poisonous air, he felt he would contract a disease sitting beside him. So he did what he could do to escape. He got up and ran into the bedroom and locked the door behind him. He stood leaning on the door panting heavily like he had been chased by something threatening for a very long time.

"That won't keep you away from me for very long Sherlock." Jim sang from the outside, he was leaning on the door too. He could feel Sherlock leaning on the other side.

Several hours passed in silence. Sherlock sat on the floor with his knees and arms together, he was trying very hard to stop shivering but to no avail. He knew he had to open the door sometime or the other. The thought agitated him further. There was no escape. He felt nauseated, he wished to god to be sick with a disease that didn't have a cure. That way he could die and Jim wouldn't be able to stop it.

He laughed a sick, sad laugh as realization struck him. He already was sick with one such disease. Jim Moriarty. He couldn't be cured. No, never.

* * *

A sharp slapping sound bought him back from his thoughts. The sound was coming from the other room. It was a bit muffled due to the closed door between. Another sound made him sit up straight, he went closer to the door and leaned in with his ear to it. The frequency of the sound accelerated. Someone was whipping something.

It took Sherlock less than a second to figure out what was going on in the next room. He tried to open the door but found it locked from the outside.

Jim was whipping himself, he had locked Sherlock out. Sherlock never whipped Jim with original whips, they were always recreational. But Jim was never so soft on himself. He didn't care, he didn't feel hurt, in any case he hurt himself just to cause Sherlock pain, to intensify it he would be cruel to himself. Just as he was doing now. Sherlock knew it was an original whip. An original bane whip which cut through flesh.

_Jim must have started bleeding by now. _ The though made an already distraught Sherlock cringe. He started banging on the door madly, shouting, pleading Jim to stop and open the door.

After what felt like an eternity he heard the door being opened. He rushed outside without seeing who had opened it to find a naked Jim lying on his front on the floor. His back mutilated, bleeding profusely , whip still in hand. He was unconscious. Sherlock almost fell on his knees, too shocked to react, too numb to feel, forgetting how to speak. His eyes were wide in disbelief, he couldn't breathe. He feared touching Jim. He just sat there staring at the bloodied figure.

"The doctor has been called." A steely voice said from behind him.

Without looking he knew it was Sebastian. Jim had set a timer for him directing when he should barge in and let Sherlock out. Like he always did. Sebastian obeyed.

The doctor was no random one on call. He was used to these sights and even more. He was an employee of Jim Moriarty. He never asked questions. Never looked around and never failed.

Sherlock sat on the bed propped up on pillows. Jim lay on him with his head on his chest. On his back was a massive bandage covering almost all his back. He was given a sedative.

Sherlock was staring at the ceiling. His mind blank, senses numb, breathing uneven. He felt tears streaming down his eyes. Something he hadn't done for many years.


	14. Chapter 14

**The second part of the story would begin from the next chapter, this chapter is conclusion of this part of the story, thus short. it is a link. **

* * *

Sherlock woke up to complete and utter emptiness.

There were no thoughts, no feelings and no Jim. The last one shook him out of slumber completely.

_Where is he?_

The answer was right in front of him, staring at him from the giant screen right across the bed. Sherlock took a deep breath and sat up slowly.

"It's good to see you looking for me in the morning." The well-known face on the screen said to him in the familiar sweet tone.

Sherlock got out of the bed and went close to the screen, looking at the screen with concern filled eyes.

"Are you okay? You should be resting."

Jim inhaled deeply tilting his head backwards, smiling, as if inhaling Sherlock's smell.

_Concern._ Concern for Jim. Sherlock's concern for Jim. Just after last night when Jim made him feel caged, helpless, guilty, sick. Just after a night of hating him. Just after a night Jim had caused himself some physical pain.

_Whatever pains me pains Sherlock more. He can't stop loving me. No, it's not possible. _

At that moment Jim felt like the most powerful man on the earth. Which obviously he was close to being.

"I'll be back soon, honey." Jim said to Sherlock with a look of serenity.

Sherlock went closer to the screen and put a hand on Jim's virtual cheek. He leaned into the virtual touch. After a moment of silently watching each other the screen turned off automatically. Sherlock stood there looking into the void for some moments before sighing and going into the bath.

Sherlock had decided to turn himself into a machine. He would adhere to it. He would be Jim's own private robot which ate, slept, walked, made love just as he wanted. An unfeeling machine, without any other thoughts than which Jim would allow him, without any choice of his own. Jim had always abided by his choices and now Sherlock would reciprocate whole heartedly. There were no other choices and it was completely futile to struggle or argue. At least this way he wouldn't cause any more deaths involuntarily and his mind wouldn't feel like it would erupt because of his feelings. Ten years, ten long years passed in such futile arguments, failed attempts to change the inevitable, feeling helpless and complete and utter defeat. It was enough now. Enough for a lifetime. It was time he should realize and accept that change was impossible and move on, take a new course of life which was more tolerable till the end. And maybe, just maybe someday Jim would succumb to his silent compliance and leave this wretched life behind. Maybe Jim would be cured.

Just maybe…


	15. Chapter 15

**_Who can say what eventually a story would come to be_**

**_can you see Sherlock without Moriarty?_**

**_Like the sides of a coin they are joined_**

**_It is only fate that maybe John will get entwined..._**

**_For my lovely reviewers...thank you._**

* * *

Jim could have asked for anything, anything at all and it would have been granted by Sherlock. He could have realised his long cherished dream of having Sherlock as his husband without any effort or argument.

But he asked for nothing instead. Sherlock was being a model of submissiveness. He was almost obeying everything and anything Jim was asking. He was always agreeing with him like he never had an opinion of his own. It should have been a dream come true for Jim, instead he couldn't take it.

He missed the only man who had the right, intelligence, command and courage to counter him, to argue his every decision, point his every fault, attempt to avert him from the path of destruction. That man was gone. Sherlock never hurt him, never countered him, never gave even a look of disapproval, never debated him, never scorned him, never questioned him and never loved him like he did before. His passion was gone along with the hatred. The fire had been subdued in their love making. The demanding, aggressive, dominating lover was gone. The volcano had become a barren land, upon which grew no life and inside which was no warmth or vibration of swaying molten lava.

Jim's Sherlock was gone.

At first it disturbed him. Then it infuriated him. At last it alarmed him.

He felt like living with an empty tin can which echoed whatever was in Jim's own mind. the qualities for which he loved Sherlock more than any other human being were by some mysterious force sucked out of him.

Jim tried coaxing him.

"Sherlock come on, I've missed your manhandling me."

"I won't Jim."

"I found and innocent looking kid today aspiring to become an assassin, may come in handy someday. Isn't it nice?"

"Yes Jim."

"It's so bleak, I want to burn down some houses to make it brighter, warmer. Houses full of people. What do you think Sherlock?"

No answer.

"Let's go out for some time?"

"Whatever you wish Jim."

"Where? Wan to try something new? We've already almost covered the world, what's your suggestion?"

"Anywhere you like."

He tried reasoning.

"Sherlock this behavior of yours is not going to solve our problems. Surely you understand that."

"Yes Jim."

"Then why doing it?"

"You once said, what's the point of doing anything?"

He lashed out his anger on him.

"what the hell is wrong with you Sherlock?!" he screamed at the top of his voice not hiding his fury.

"Nothing."

"Then where is the man I love? What the hell have you done to him?"

"Maybe you lost him somewhere."

"Bring him back Sherlock from where ever in that mind of yours you have locked him up, bring him back or the consequences would be horrifying! " he said pinning Sherlock to the wall violently, he was sure it hurt.

"He's dead."

"Give me one reason Sherlock as to why I should be with you anymore? I can get a complying, submissive, trained dog of a man whenever I want. What do you think binds me to you? I can have any number of good looking, intelligent men serving me at any time of the day every day for the rest of my life! and make them do whatever I wish for. What makes you different now? Why should I keep you anymore? Now that you are nothing but an empty box, I can change the body I lie with every night! "

Sherlock stayed silent. Expression stoic.

"Your mind Sherlock! Give me back your mind!" he screamed shaking Sherlock violently making his head bump on the wall several times.

No reply.

He let go of Sherlock, utterly disgusted, disheartened and disinterested.

"What use are you to me now?"

"None." Sherlock replied in a tired voice.

Jim's anger immediately turned into suspicion and alarm.

_Is this Sherlock's trick to get away from me? Most probably is, of course he knew I would say and do such things. And I fell for it. I almost thought about really getting rid of him. Oh Sherlock, my clever, clever Sherlock. You make me love you so much love. Sorry your little plan failed. I will take you as you are. _

Jim's demeanor changed from that minute. He was back to giving Sherlock all the love, attention, appreciation he was capable of. And more. Sherlock's fate remained sealed.

Tenacity was a game which neither of them could lose.


	16. Chapter 16

**And the skyfall begins...**

**please review for more**

* * *

"A man's alibi is not always apparent James. It can vary from a smell to the dust on his shoes." Sherlock said gravely looking away from his agent.

"Get the forensic reports. The original ones. Mention my name if any problem occurs."

"Yes sir."

A particularly disturbing case. A vengeful murder. Revenge suspected, Sherlock knew. He just needed enough evidence. Then the old, destitute man could be hanged. He didn't feel bad for the man because the verdict would be justified. It was not any case of injustice or partiality. He released a breath putting his hands together under his chin. He was of some use still.

It had been six months since the new development between him and Jim. Six months of silent compliance on both sides, six months of pretended peace, six months of tolerance, six months of noiseless war of wills. Six whole months of testing the limits of each other's patience.

_Six months of me not being me. Jim being Jim._

No matter how hard Sherlock tried he couldn't deny that his patience was wearing thin. He felt he hadn't been breathing. This was more suffocating than before. At least before he would voice his protests and let out the frustration, helpless still with a voice at least, at least some kind of outlet. Sherlock felt he was nearing an outburst, it would be Christmas for Jim and yet another defeat for Sherlock. Jim was waiting for it, he knew Sherlock was nearing it and once Sherlock broke he wouldn't let him go back to this state again. He had to control it. At any cost. He just couldn't let it happen. This was the best solution for their problem. They were good together now even if it was only a façade.

He ran his hands through his hair.

_What's the use of it? why do anything? Why even try? _

_No I have to keep this up. I have to save lives. _

_I have to save lives._

"You think killing me would stop this? All the bad people wanting to do bad things, ones actually doing them would just vanish?"

Sherlock stood, shaking with rage, gritting his teeth, pointing a gun at Jim. Nothing Jim would say today was going to dissuade him from doing this. Jim on the other hand was completely at ease standing at point blank range, as if there were no bullets in the gun. But the case was contrary.

"None of this would stop by killing me Sherlock. My network is far too vast and far too organized to just come to a halt after I cease to be. Even if they stop they won't do so suddenly. They would do what they have to before giving up. And it's going to hurt you more Sherlock. Because then I won't be here for you to blame, hit, take out your anger on." He said making a mocking sad face.

"And you will miss me. Kill me for those people who have always and would always only loath you. There's nothing you can do dear." He said simply.

Sherlock felt devastated, defeated. His rage only fuelled by the helplessness. He stood there in a moment of indecision.

"You know if you just let it be maybe I'll consider killing less people instantly, slowly maybe, by other means. And maybe not in herds. How does that sound?"

Sherlock knew Jim was lying. Nothing, nothing in this world could quench his blood thirst. If Sherlock's presence or protest could do it, it would have by now.

With a deep breath Sherlock turned the gun and pointed at his own head.

Jim fell to his knees instantaneously whispering "Oh my god."

Sherlock looked at him with triumph. He grinned.

After a few shaky breaths and hard swallowing Jim spoke to him again, his voice was broken.

"That…that is much worse than killing me Sherlock. Please…please don't do it." tears had started falling from his eyes. He sobbed silently, pleading.

"Then this is what you deserve." Sherlock said with conviction.

"No!" Jim screamed at the top of his voice. Making Sherlock grin wider.

"Give me one good reason Jim." He said in a husky voice. His eyes bored into Jim.

Jim had hung his head on his chest. He lifted it as he spoke. Eyes still wet but mouth twisted in a devilish grin.

"Because more people would die."

Sherlock's face fell in utter bewilderment.

"You think I will let these 'people' go for whom you are going to take your life? You think I'll let them breath after you sacrifice your breathing for those meaningless creatures?"

Sherlock stood there frozen.

"I won't be able to live without you Sherlock. I would kill myself shortly after that." Jim said crying.

"But" he demeanor changed, his face contorted in a vicious fashion. "Before I go I'll make sure that no one is alive in this city. And also that there are lesser people in this country."

The gun fell from Sherlock's hands. He stood there mouth agape, devastated.

"Do you want to cause that many deaths Sherlock?"

Sherlock was turned to stone.

"Then don't. Ever. Think. Of. Dying. AGAIN!"

The vivid and shattering memory of Jim's shouting bought Sherlock back to present. He was still in his office and it was broad daylight outside. He felt the sweat beads on his forehead.

He had to appear in court the next day for the case. Things fell into place and after going through the forensics personally he found solid proof. It went smoothly enough and he was satisfied. The convicted man showed no sign of shame or repentance. Instead he stood there with silent conviction, head held high in righteousness. As if he was proud to kill the man. Sherlock sighed, maybe Moriarty was not the only one.

"Remember to go through the forensics thoroughly from next time, you see how easy it was to detect who was where from the faint aroma of the…" Sherlock was speaking to James on his way out of the court the next day when suddenly a fist came from nowhere and knocked him down. The unexpected blow made him lose balance and stumble on the stairs making his head hit a stair's edge. The fist had made his vision go blur for a moment and then the concussion made it stay for another few moments. In a matter of seconds he felt strong hands groping his hands and making him stand. As his vision cleared he saw two of his body guards had arrived and were holding him up carefully. Other two were dragging a furious young man in his early twenties away from him. He recognized the man, it was the son of the man whose sentence to death Sherlock had just confirmed.

"You sick bastard!" the man spat at him.

As the initial shock left him Sherlock felt alarmed.

_Oh no!_

"LET HIM GO!" He screamed at his bodyguards . He tried to free himself from the men who were holding him to no avail. Desperate, he screamed again to let the man go. But they refused to listen.

"At least my father had a motive! He was taking his revenge! Unlike your sick boyfriend who kills for pleasure!" the man's voice broke. Before Sherlock could protest anymore he was gently shoved into the limo. He could still hear the man screaming outside and struggling to get free. Once again he sat helplessly. Two men sitting on both his sides. He was drove to the hospital. As the horror sank into him slowly he calmed down. The man didn't know what he had bought upon himself. Once again Sherlock was the cause of it, unwittingly.

He was rushed through different departments. Various tests were done, his wounds were tended to. The hospital was a in a flurry of action. At last he was made to sit at a chamber for some final check-ups. He sat there too dazed to move, too tired to think and too sad to feel his injuries.

_Not again. Please. Not again._

"Mr Holmes." A voice called from behind. He didn't register until the owner came in front of him and said with a warm, friendly smile.

"I am Dr Watson."

As the voice drew his focus the first thing he saw was the most tender, kind, reassuring, comforting eyes he had seen in a decade. He felt the terror's grip loosen. The man had turned his back and he was saying something but all Sherlock could hear was a peaceful silence and the mild drumming of his own heart.


	17. Chapter 17

The man's very presence was comforting. _Comfort_. When was the last time he felt comforted? He couldn't remember. No, living with Moriarty only provided physical comforts, none other than that. Mentally you would always be on a bed of thrones when your body would be caressed by the best of silk in the world. You mind would be ablaze in agony when your body would be relaxing in the most expensive soaps and fragrant oils. Your mind would be restless with thoughts of helplessness when your body would be resting on the highest quality of foam available in the world. But this, the comfort the man in front of him was providing was a blessing not many people had. Sherlock in his lifetime had come across many people, he could say with certainty that no one had this calming effect on him. If someone had had then he could have compared this with that. Which he could not now. He tried very hard to grasp what effect the presence of this person was having on his mind but couldn't pin it down. He tried to read the man instead. There was nothing unique in the man except for the fact that he had served in the army. Came from a respectable moderate family, maybe had siblings., medical school, stayed abroad for service, must have been invalided home because he's quite young. Nothing remarkable, yet so dintinguished. Sherlock felt he could almost drink the soothing effects this man was having on him and quench his thirst for mental peace.

"Your X rays seem fine. Don't have any fractures." The doctor said looking at the plates. Then putting them on the table he came near Sherlock.

"Let me just check for shock, okay?" he said smiling at Sherlock like he was a school boy at the doctor's chamber afraid of the needle.

"Let me see…" the doctor approached Sherlock with a small pen shaped torch in hand and with the other hand he tried to remove Sherlock's hand from his lips. He was pressing the wound on his lips with medicated cotton as instructed earlier.

The doctor stopped mid-sentencing seeing the expression on his patient's face. At the very moment when grey-blue met golden brown and marble met sun tanned, everything changed. As if something new was set into motion by the universe. Sherlock's mind calmed down in that moment at John's was set ablaze. With questions, with passions, with emotions, with intrigue, with many other things beyond reasoning.

A sharp knock on the door startled them both. John blinked and withdrew. "Come in." he said breathing and went to his desk without checking Sherlock further. His back was turned to his patient so he didn't see a tall man with a grave face and black suit come in stealthily.

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the doctor. He kept staring at his back longingly. He wanted him to come back, stare into his eyes, touch him with those warm steady hands again. The doctor seemingly unaware of his gaze kept putting the test repots into a bag. He was resolutely not looking at his patient. He knew he had let the checking unfinished but the state of his heart and mind stated he was the one who needed a check-up right now.

As he turned he saw his patient looking at him in the same manner. There's awe, there's delight, there's longing and now a half petulant half hurt look also. He saw the man beside him also.

"I'm here for Mr Holmes." The man announced. It startled Sherlock, he didn't realize Sebastian was there. That meant Jim was here too. _Time's up. _ He's face became grave at the realization. He looked at the doctor as if asking for permission.

"No need to worry Mr Holmes, there's no serious injury. Just take care of the wounds." The doctor concluded authoritatively but with the kind smile of his.

Sherlock lowered his gaze and stood up. Sebastian extended a hand but he refused.

"I can walk." He said. Turning to the doctor who was looking at him with some perplexity he said "Thank you." Only Sherlock knew why he'd thanked the doctor. For that moment of peace. Which ended so abruptly at the knock of the sickening reality.

"Take care." The doctor mumbled. His patient's voice resonating in his mind, body and soul. He wanted to speak to this man again.

With one last longing look at the doctor like a thirsty man looks at an oasis Sherlock went away with Sebastian. _This is a mirage_, he thought, _the desert is waiting for me outside, to engulf me once again, to soak me in blood again._

As the door closed behind them the doctor swallowed. He stood there looking at the closed door. The chamber seemed unusually empty. Lot of people come and every day from there, then why was it feeling empty now?

John inhaled deeply as he looked around. realization struck him painfully.

The chamber didn't feel empty. He did.

_What is happening?_


	18. Chapter 18

Taking a deep breath Sherlock steadied himself outside the hospital. The limo was waiting in front. The chauffeur was standing beside the door while Sebastian was still by his side. Sherlock didn't want to enter the car in this volatile state of mind. First of all he knew Jim would be hysteric, he needed to be calm to calm him. Secondly there would be enough blood shed today which he would be unable to stop, he needed to be calm from now on to not to have a complete mental breakdown himself. Thirdly he didn't want Jim to read his face or mind, both of which spoke of a kind warm doctor.

Sherlock readied himself to face the situation which lay before him with immense effort. His face became stoic, eyes steady and cold, breathing even.

As he opened the door he could feel the atmosphere inside was vibrating, it would explode any minute now. Jim sat at the furthest corner of the seat looking at his bruised face. His eyes were welled up, mouth turned down. He was rocking back and forth.

As soon as Sherlock slid beside him and the door closed Jim gave out a heart wrenching wail of pure anguish.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO."

The sound ripped through Sherlock, vibrating through his veins, nerves, skin, brain, heart, shattering his self-restraint and practiced calm. Sherlock felt his heart constrict, his breathing hitched as he tentatively reached out for Jim.

Jim screamed again, clutching his hair painfully and still rocking back and forth he said

""Kill everybody. Every fucking person who was there. I don't want anyone alive! They failed to protect Sherlock! They failed me!"

"Yes sir." Sebastian's curt reply resonated inside the car though speakers.

By then Sherlock was able to somewhat collect the shattered pieces and put them together. He put a hand firmly on Jim's shoulder and pulled him. Jim turned to look at him, eyes red and dripping, mouth opened, breathing ragged, shivering uncontrollably. He was in sheer panic. Sherlock yielded him to come closer. In a moment Jim was on him, touching and checking his face thoroughly, talking frantically.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock." Jim sobbed. There was a small bandage on Sherlock's forehead where it was bruised by the hit on the stairs, there was a cut, red, still fresh on his lower lip. Jim stroked it carefully and felt the texture of the wound.

Sherlock took Jim's face in both his hands.

"look at me Jim." After pleading twice Jim yielded.

"This is not your fault." He said firmly looking into Jim's eyes.

"I failed to protect you." Jim said in a hoarse voice looking dazed.

"No you didn't. It was an accident Jim. It was nobody's fault. Certainly not the body guards'. They took me to the hospital."

"I should have been there." Jim whispered.

"Jim, no. Don't do this."

"Punish me." Jim's eyes implored Sherlock.

"No. most definitely not." Sherlock replied succinctly in a cold, determined voice.

"How can I ever…"

Jim was cut mid-sentence by Sherlock. He shook his head and started caressing Jim. He smoothed Jim's disarrayed hair, wiped his tears tenderly and pulled his head to rest on his chest. He held on to him with both his hands.

"I'm okay."

Jim silently sobbed the whole way.

At home, Jim didn't let Sherlock be out of his sight for once.

"I won't let this happen ever again Sherlock." Jim said rubbing Sherlock's back in the bathroom in the bath tub. Sherlock was sitting with his back to Jim who was now gently washing Sherlock's hair, careful not to soak his bandage. Jim was washing him thoroughly, he wanted to wash away the pain, the memory, the incident itself. He wanted to rid Sherlock of it and maybe then he would be able to forgive himself.

Sherlock was deep in thoughts, carefully avoiding the thoughts of the doctor. Jim had shed all his clothes except for his shirt. _Why? _It was exceedingly odd. Was he hiding something? Jim's voice broke his chain of thoughts. He was instantly reminded that there would be more than one death today because of him. This unforeseen incident had broken the façade they had been keeping up till now. There was no use trying. Sherlock realized resignedly.

"Jim?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"Don't do anything stupid. Please."

"Okay." Jim said as a half-smile played on his face. Sherlock was back to protesting, it was only a matter of time when he would be back to _thinking_ again. Sherlock was back, Jim was relieved. _This incident had some positive effect after all_. Thought Jim begrudgingly.

Jim fed Sherlock with utmost care, avoiding contact with the bruise on his lips. Sherlock didn't protest to Jim's constant ministrations. He knew Jim felt responsible and Jim was trying to make up for it, pressing him to stop would only lead to further difficult situations. He wanted to avoid them at all costs.

When Jim tucked Sherlock into bed and prepared to lie down wearing his pyjama shirt something he had never done Sherlock couldn't hold back anymore.

"Why are you wearing a shirt to bed?" Sherlock asked frowning as a sense of foreboding crept slowly up to his mind.

"I'm cold." Jim said innocently.

"No you're not." Sherlock refuted his claim with a shake of his head, his frown deepening.

Jim looked lost. He was avoiding eye contact.

"What have you done to yourself?" Sherlock asked swallowing, his wounded, fragile self-restraint giving away.

Jim looked miserable thus confronted.

"Show me." Sherlock said ominously, losing his patience. "SHOW ME NOW!"

Jim's head jerked up at Sherlock's voice. He started unbuttoning his shirt nervously. He threw the shirt away and stared at Sherlock, fear in his eyes.

Sherlock was panting with rage, disgust, horror his, patience giving out for the day.

There was a long thick bandage horizontally across Jim's chest.

"I just wanted to share Sherlock." Jim said licking his lips. "Share your pain."

"I asked you not to do anything like this." Sherlock said looking at Jim who sat beside him in the limo on the way to his office. Jim had insisted to drop him and pick him up from now on unless there was an emergency or he was out of town. Then Sebastian would be with him. Jim was busy on his I-phone when Sherlock spoke. Without looking up Jim knew what he was referring to. The man who had hit Sherlock was found dead today in someone's backyard. All the bones from both his hands were surgically removed and his hands were in a knot, like ropes. The whole incident was published in the papers, excluding what had preceded it.

"You asked me not do anything stupid Sherlock." Drawled Jim without looking up.

"Then what is this?" snarled Sherlock.

"Honey, if someone hit you and got away with it then that would have been stupid." Jim said nonchalantly.

"Besides, I think it's about time you should concede with me." Jim said looking at Sherlock who was looking at him aghast.

"Your 'people' have failed you again Sherlock. You clean the streets for them and get a punch in the face as reward. That's what happens when you do good to the society Sherlock. You put a criminal to justice and they express their gratitude like this." He said pointing to Sherlock's lip.

"Doing good is a thankless job Sherlock. Doing bad gives you everything, not that I care for it though."

Sherlock knew he had lost another argument. What actually happened had its root in Moriarty but the plain fact was what Jim had stated. It was no use arguing. Sherlock's self-satisfaction at putting a criminal behind bars ebbed away. No matter what he thought or did for the society he would always be frowned upon, out casted. Nothing changed. Nothing ever will.

"They don't deserve us Sherlock." Jim said sighing.


	19. Chapter 19

**_Thank you for the reviews!_**

* * *

_Why people? Why is it always that I care about people more than Jim? What have I gained from it? what have I ever gained from associating myself with any of them? Why do I rigidly pursue this futility? _

_Is it the concept of greater good? Since when do I believe in such notions? _

_Let's face it. I have been with this man knowing him fully for so long. That makes an impression, I have this image, I have created it, why do I try so hard to deny it? Why do I care for people whom I can easily see through? Who are of no use in this world. Who don't care what I think of them, who only judge me by my only association. _

_This is true, isn't it Sherlock? Jim Moriarty is your only association, what opinion can you form about yourself from this? Isn't it that you are constantly denying something that is as clear as daylight? You love the man, you live with him, you can't kill him and you've never been attracted to anyone except for him. No, not because of fear, because nobody ever came close to Jim. Nobody can be Jim, you need him, you need him to survive. It is only because of him that you've survived for so long Sherlock. Imagine a world without him, without the bloodshed he is accountable for, without his constant watch, a world in peace without Moriarty, with people who would still hate you for being you, without one single person who could occupy your mind, without a single person who could crave you like Jim, without anyone having even a drop of passion as acidic, as pure as intoxicating as Jim. _

_Where would you find yourself Sherlock? At the bottom of the stairs, which lead to nowhere, you'll be forced to spend the rest of your life in darkness and despair, without a single drop of Jim you'll perish overnight. There is no human, no nature, no cause, no drugs better than Jim. _

_You breath Jim Sherlock and Jim breaths you. _

_Why do you even try to be good when you know it's not possible? Can't you see you cannot be good, because you love Jim. These two emotions cannot go side by side. Why do you even try to veil the fact that you have at least half the contempt Jim holds for these 'people'._

_Jim was right Sherlock. You are Jim. In a guise._

_But Jim is an acid that burns. After a time body and soul becomes numb. You seek the comfort of warmth. Is that where these people come in Sherlock? Is that why you are so concerned about them? Do you think that there might be someone who would be able to sooth your burns and keep you warm among them? Do you think there might be a doctor Watson who would not abhor you?_

_Yes. Yes your heart concedes the point. Look how its rhythm has changed, look how your brain is telling you to devise a plan to get out and find out where Dr Watson is. Look at the signs Sherlock. Look at the signs of betrayal. Jim lost to you in debauchery._

Sherlock cringed at his own thoughts.

But he found himself secretly devising a plan to sneak out and seek out the doctor. All he had to do was to venture into the magazine office one floor below and sneak out the fire exit. He's own office was under severe surveillance, he had to be cautious. Once outside he would be again under surveillance. That he had to avoid somehow.

Sherlock went out of his office in the most nonchalant way. Crossed the corridor to the elevator leisurely got down on the next floor and walked into the magazine office. Being a well-known face it was impossibly simple to get passed the reception. Picking up a magazine he held it in front of his face feigning to read and made his way swiftly to the fire exit.

Going down the stairs two at a time he reached the landing. Now was the real challenge. He got out of his suit jacket and rumpled his well ironed shirt deliberately. But this wasn't enough. He paced with a fist on his lips for a moment and then looked out of the glass cutting on the door. Thankfully there was a kid smoking, homeless judging by the appearance. He was lanky and tall, wearing a hoodie, much larger in size.

_Perfect._

"Hey Kid!" Sherlock whispered , slightly cracking the door and inviting the kid inside. He came eagerly.

"I'll give you ten quid for that jacket and ten more if you wait here until come back. Deal? "

The kid looked at him stunned. This man could have any clothes from any fancy shop in whole London, why was he asking for his jacket? That too for that much money? His mouth went agape.

Sherlock took that as his cue and held out the money in front of him. It worked like magic. He got out of his hoodie with a grateful smile. And Sherlock put it on.

"I'll need to borrow your shoes too." Sherlock said getting his designer leather shoes off and folding his trousers. The kid obliged.

"And don't run away with my clothes. It may cost your life." Sherlock warned.

Getting into the rusty old sports shoes Sherlock said finally,

"If someone comes and you are thrown out then don't go far."

Taking another cigarette from the kid and covering his mouth with his handkerchief Sherlock went out. His heart was thundering in his chest. At any moment he could be caught or worse, cost another life. But he had to take a chance. He felt riveted as the adrenalin pumped through his veins making him feel alive after a long long time. The dread was drowned in eagerness, the mind was filled with anticipation. Every negative thought was pushed towards the back of the mind making space for two warm golden brown eyes.


	20. Chapter 20

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Sherlock wanted answers. Answers which only one person could give him, the person who raised them. Could he? Could he be pining for someone as ordinary as the doctor fellow? Why so? What exactly was he looking for? Why him? Did he feel something too? What if they both wanted this? What then? God help them if this was true.

Sherlock skirted through different lanes and by-lanes leading to St. Brat's. The only place he could find the doctor or information pertaining his whereabouts. Sherlock hoped intensely that he would be there. Though he didn't have any plans as to what his next steps would be if he was actually there. He wouldn't be able to justify the disguise if he just walked in and said he'd come for a check-up. He was not thinking so much right now. Right now finding the doctor was his priority. Maybe he wouldn't go up to him at all. He just wanted to see him again, confirm if he had the same effects on him even today. He wanted to clear his doubts about whatever he had felt the other day weather or not was caused by his concussion or something like that. Because quite frankly he was hurt, because his body had long since forgotten what it felt like to be hurt. Jim had placed him in a safe zone which had never been invaded till then. Plus Sherlock had to be cautious every step of the way. He had to avoid Jim's surveillances. He had to keep himself invisible and he had to be fast. If he was away for too long it would definitely raise an alarm especially right after such an incident.

Sherlock reached the building just in time to see his doctor hailing a cab.

_Must have had an early shift. _

Sherlock swiftly crossed the doctor and heard the address he gave to the cabbie. Sherlock felt the familiar feel of warmth and something inside him tingled as he passed the doctor, it was barely a moment, yet the sensation was there. Before the doctor's cab had even barely started moving Sherlock had not only hailed a cab and given the same address but also suggested a shorter route to get there. Time was of essence. Sherlock's cab swiftly took the shorter route and reached just a few minutes before the doctor's car followed. Sherlock had gotten off two buildings down the line of the said address and hid himself in an alley at a vantage point from where the gate of the said building was clearly visible and he himself was effectively concealed. He saw the doctor's cab stop in front of the building. The doctor got out and handed the money and said something smiling.

Sherlock looked at him mesmerized. A person who was actually nice to people. People whom he didn't know, people whom he might not meet again, people who hardly mattered. People like that cabbie. What had he done to deserve that warm smile from his doctor? He was merely doing his job for the money. It is not as if he had done some favor for him. Then why did the doctor smile at him? Sherlock felt a tinge of something he couldn't fully decipher. He realized he was one of such people too. The doctor looked at him with such kind, comforting understanding, without deserving it, without expecting it he had been ushered with the fondness that almost seeped through this man. Sherlock was grateful, Sherlock was needful.

Sherlock realized a little too late that he had involuntarily made himself half visible from the doctor's line of sight and the doctor was looking at him straight.

John saw a hooded figure lurking in the alley across two buildings. What caught his attention though was that the figure was watching him. His military alertness kicking in only to fall apart as he noticed one grey-blue eye and a half pale face with a distinct cut on the lower lip. He had seen just once and could recognize those eyes anywhere. Even when it was half of the face, one of the eyes. They looked at him with the same longing and produced the same feeling in his own heart. He never expected to see them again yet he wished every minute of his waking time since the owner of those eyes left his chamber the other day to run into those loch deep eyes once again.

They stood there. Meters apart from each other. Unable to move, unable to come closer. Both for separate reasons. Time existed in the other parts of the earth, not here, not in London, not now when two human beings who hardly knew each other were engulfed in each other like stormy clouds hanging over the turbulent sea. They want to touch each other but there is always this distance between the sea and the sky until the rain drops connect them like a melting wet wall.

Sherlock turned away abruptly and leaned against the wall. He breathed out heavily like he was holding his breath for ages. Something inside him had unlocked on its own accord. He felt free. He knew the doctor had recognized him and would be coming towards him. He ran from there in the opposite direction. His doubts had been cleared. His feelings were caused by a certain Dr Watson and not any concussion. Not at all.

John ran towards the man as soon as he felt he could move only to find an empty alley. He leaned on the wall on the exact spot on which Sherlock had been leaning a while ago, unknowingly.

Sherlock covered the distance half by cab and half on foot. He burst through the fire exit and found the boy sitting patiently on the stairs. He gave him a heartfelt smile and got out of his hoodie and shoes.

"Thanks my boy." He said ruffling the kid's hair who looked at him gratefully clutching the money he had been promised.

Sherlock straightened his own clothes and finger combed his hair, buttoned up his suit as he nonchalantly walked up the stairs into the magazine office again. He caught up and chatted with the proprietor on something on the current issue for some time securing an alibi and again walked back into his own office like the episode had never taken place.

There remained a problem though. Jim would be able to detect the slight mess that he was, no matter how undetectable to others. He would smell the sweat and notice the creases on his clothes. He may also be able to tell the thoughts if Sherlock didn't put up a barrier. He had to distract Jim.

Sherlock's shirt was untucked, tie loose and jacket in his hands when he got into the limo and slid beside Jim who was wearing a warm welcoming smile.

"How was your…" Jim was cut short by breath taking mind numbing kiss from Sherlock.

When they parted to catch their breath Sherlock held Jim by the nape and pressed their foreheads together.

"How's your wound Jim?"

"It's fine but your lip…" he was cut mid-sentence with another mind numbing kiss. As Sherlock's hands started exploring his torso Jim silently took his I-phone and texted the chauffeur.

_Don't stop until I say so._

Their limo roamed through the city for the next hour.

Jim was leaning on Sherlock with his back to him. Sherlock was rubbing his hands over Jim's lean, delicate hands and kissing him from one shoulder to another across his back. They were in their bedroom, on their bed.

Sherlock felt fresh blood coursing through his body, his mind alighted, his body sated. He could live with Moriarty for the rest of his life, with the daily dosage of Dr Watson. There were no fears of overdosing, no health hazards, just pure unadulterated life force. Obviously there had to be some precautions but it was just a minor setback. Or at least in this state of mind it seemed so to him.

"Sherlock."

"Mmm?" Sherlock mumbled in Jim's neck.

Jim closed his eyes in pleasure. He didn't know what led to this situation but he didn't regret it. Whatever it was it made Sherlock love him passionately, just like old times, not like he had been for the past six months. Jim had melted, he felt he was cured of some disease, he felt he could breathe again. But there was this unpleasant thought nagging at the back of his mind. He couldn't shut it out and past experiences had proved it to be a bad idea to shut such nagging doubts out.

He turned his head to face Sherlock who was busy with his neck and shoulders still.

"Tell me." Jim whispered. "Tell me what I see in your eyes now is for me."

Sherlock halted. A thousand thoughts crossing his mind. But he couldn't let Jim read them. He looked at Jim profoundly.

"Yes Jim." He said lovingly. "I'm sorry. You mean a lot to me. a lot more than the 'people'. You never leave me Jim. You never change. And. . . Me." Sherlock said in between kisses.

To Jim it sounded too good to be true. Could it be that Sherlock just realized it? right after the tiff this morning? But that is how Sherlock is. Ever changing. He refused to let doubt spoil this moment of pure ecstasy. He wanted to revel in what Sherlock said now. He wanted to hold onto those words for dear life.

Jim sighed and smiled. Sherlock also sighed. Both for different reasons.

But Jim's question had ignited the apprehension in Sherlock, which he had successfully kept at bay till then.

_What if Jim finds out? What then?_


	21. Chapter 21

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What the hell was wrong with him?

Sherlock thought looking at the sky through his office window. The phones rang, people came in calling his attention, people stood there to speak. But he noticed nothing. He was oblivious to everything. As if nothing else existed except for him.

Dr Watson was going to die.

And he was the reason for it. How could he be so stupid? So irresponsible? Doesn't he know what happens to the people who come near him? Doesn't he remember what happened to peter? Doesn't he remember what happened to that guy at the party? Doesn't he know what could become of John Watson just because of his want of adrenalin rush? God what had he done.

_John._

The name itself gave Sherlock a breath of fresh air. A feeling of safety, a feeling of freedom. It was strange how he never felt like this with Jim. To be honest he was the safest man on earth with Jim. No one could touch him, no one could reach him, no one could harm him. Yet this feeling of safety he could relate to John, who's own safety was now questionable if Jim was to find out Sherlock's inclination towards the doctor.

Oh what a mess he has made.

Sherlock tapped his temples with his fingers in exasperation. He needed to calm down, he needed to regain control over his thoughts but they had started disobeying him at every mention of John Watson. He hated it yet he loved it. He had lost control with Jim so many times and regretted it every time. But now this doctor who was nowhere close to Jim was wrecking his control and he was actually enjoying it. He was longing for it.

He tried to force his thoughts away from the course they were taking. His thoughts were growing wilder with images of him losing control to the doctor.

_Oh what pleasure it would be! I won't feel guilty about it, it won't be as harsh and brutal like it is with Jim. I would never touch John like that. John would never tough me like that. Did he actually feel the way his eyes told me he did? Or was it just a moment of bewilderment? A stumble? What if all this is a dream? I need to check again. If possible go talk to him. Lay a hand on that beautiful warm hued skin, course my fingers through those soft light locks. Take hold of him, claim him. Making sure what he felt was real. What I felt was real._

Sherlock slapped himself mentally. He reminded himself that John would be skinned if he touched him, he would be decapitated if he ran his fingers through his hair, silenced to death if he ever dared to hold him. This was a mistake. This was a great big mistake.

_If only Jim could understand._

Sherlock thought wistfully. But then what would Jim understand? That he was not enough for Sherlock? That no matter what he did for him was just not enough? That Sherlock coveted a man as plain and simple as the doctor? That Sherlock was willing to have them both? That Sherlock would prefer if Jim had some attributes of John? That he could calm and comfort him by his presence like the doctor?

That Sherlock was cheating on him after ten years of blind love and loyalty from Jim?

The last thought startled Sherlock. He sat up straight and as if on cue Jim called. He saw the caller Id and settled himself. Trying to hide everything on his mind in the deepest darkest recesses of his vast mind.

"Jim." Sherlock acknowledged.

There was a faint sobbing sound from the opposite side. It gave Sherlock a deep frown.

_Oh God! No! please no! please Jim hasn't found out! No!_

The sobbing continued.

Two of his bodyguards came into his chamber and stood silently by the door.

He had to go.

On his way Sherlock couldn't help fidgeting. All the horrible scenarios played in his mind. He never hated himself as much as he did today. He ran his hands through his hair contemplating. What would he do if he had actually caused John's death? He wouldn't be able to let Jim get away with this one. No, his doctor would be avenged, no matter what the consequence. Maybe Jim hadn't killed him yet, maybe he could talk Jim out of it. He would give Jim anything he wanted to make sure his doctor was alive.

_I would do anything. Anything at all._

All the way Sherlock continued to think of ways to make his wrong right.

When he entered their living area burst opening the door, panting, hearing his own heart beat away in his ears he saw Jim was sitting on the sofa, with a dejected expression. His head hung over his chest.

Holding a gun to his head.


	22. Chapter 22

**_Reviews please!_**

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_No! _

"Jim…" Sherlock whispered from the doorways.

Jim looked up. His eyes were red and swollen. A flicker of recognition, a glimpse of hope. Then darkness, all encompassing, ruthless, blackness and despair.

"They killed him" Jim said in a broken voice.

Sherlock took some steps towards him slowly trying not to startle. Sherlock had never seen Jim like this before and he was completely out of depth as to what could have caused a scene like this. It was something big surely almost as big as something about Sherlock but what exactly? Though hurt Sherlock still couldn't help but feel relieved as the situation didn't indicate anything remotely related to John.

Sherlock came closer never taking his eyes off Jim and knelt before him.

As their eyes met Jim started shivering. Sherlock rubbed his hands over Jim's thighs soothingly. Jim took a moment before speaking again.

"They killed Sebastian…" Jim breathed in a whisper.

It took a long moment for Sherlock to process the information.

Sebastian. Sebastian Moran, Jim's best man, his only confidant, a man he knew from time immemorial, the man solely responsible for Jim's security, a man he trusted blindly with Sherlock's security was dead. Jim was facing the loss of a close one. How new to him. How new to a man who was the reason for the same pain to so many people. Now faced with it he himself couldn't take it. His confidence creaked. He was not invincible anymore. He was vulnerable. He was afraid. For Sherlock. The only man left in the world who could be Jim's undoing. And now his security was in question. Jim felt helpless. He felt lost. He was unable to handle so many defeats and had resorted to which seemed the best way to escape it. But couldn't bring himself to do it. There was Sherlock. The last man he cared for. The last person who bound him to his mortal life. The one person he had to protect till his last breath.

Sherlock looked at Jim reassuringly. He softly took the gun away from his hands. Jim's shivering increased. He broke down in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock held him tight and gave lingering kisses to his hair. He ran his hands over and over again on Jim's back till the shivering ceased. Though the sobbing continued. He had to help Jim cope. But who would help him? Jim had him to cry on who he had?

Sherlock knew that a day like this would come. But somehow he couldn't believe it now. Sebastian had been a rock in their lives, he left an irreplaceable vacancy. There would never be a Sebastian again. Jim's trust was hard to earn and he wouldn't trust Sherlock with anyone again. A thought occurred to Sherlock making him wince. What if Jim caged him inside forever? Because of safety? What if he was never allowed outside again? How would he survive? How would he meet John again?

The breath caught in his lunges as he tried to remove John from his mind. Jim was too distressed to notice. Sherlock stood up with Jim wrapped around him. Distressing about what could happen won't help the matters now.

He took Jim to the bathroom and started undressing him. Jim's eyes were vacant and he kept blabbering about how it was an ambush and there was a severe security breach. He couldn't find out who exactly the offender was but would find him. It was extremely suffocating for Jim to not know and to not know this offender made him question himself. A thing he hadn't had the occasion to have in years.

Sherlock rubbed Jim comfortingly all over, trying to ease his pain. He tried not to think about his own fears and discomforts right now. After a long while Jim had stopped sobbing but he was still restless. He twisted and tuned in the water leaning on Sherlock's chest. He constantly blabbered incoherently about what he was going to do about Sherlock's security.

"I'll be fine Jim. It's okay. Calm down Jim. I'm here. I'm okay." Sherlock constantly whispered to Jim. Sherlock got them out of the water and wrapped Jim in a bathrobe. Jim clung to Sherlock for dear life as if physical separation for a moment would take Sherlock away from him.

Once in the bedroom Sherlock disrobed them both and kissed Jim's blabbering mouth shut in a bruising kiss. Jim gave in. He needed release. He needed to feel Sherlock all over to make sure he was alright. That he was still with him. He needed assurance that his failure didn't make Sherlock distant, that he still believed that Jim could protect him. Jim needed Sherlock to trust him to trust himself again. And Sherlock gave him just that.

Sherlock started stroking Jim without breaking the kiss. Jim's kiss became more needy. His hands started exploring every inch of Sherlock making sure no harm had come over his beloved. Sherlock kneaded Jim's buttocks eliciting a relieved sigh and needy moan from the man. Jim broke the kiss and tried to go down on his knees when Sherlock grabbed him up by the shoulders and resumed kissing again. He stroked Jim harder this time and Jim griped his sides leaving marks. Sherlock pinched Jim's nipples eliciting a pained moan from the man. He was getting aggressive now. His distress giving away to anger. Sensing it Sherlock drew them closer to the bed without breaking the kiss. He fumbled under the pillows and took out the lube bottle. He applied a huge quantity on Jim's length and then started to prepare himself. He knew Jim needed control to get back in control. And he wouldn't be able to be delicate or give time to prepare Sherlock.

Jim broke the kiss panting and looked into Sherlock's eyes with a combination of gratefulness, disbelief and apprehension. Sherlock nodded approvingly.

"It's okay. It's alright. You need this." he said in between breaths.

He lowered them both onto bed. Jim positioned himself on top of Sherlock. Sherlock grabbed the back of his head and sucked on Jim's lips greedily. With a deep groan Jim lunged into Sherlock and once in he didn't even give time to adjust. He started moving abruptly and swiftly. Sherlock had to stifle a cry by moaning into pillows. He held Jim's hands and his fingers dug into Jim's skin. He couldn't say this was pleasurable, because it was not. Jim was not making love. He was gaining control. That is exactly why Sherlock had to take care of his own erection himself.

Jim was growling through gritted teeth looking at him. His face was flushed with an animalistic expression. He was claiming Sherlock.

"I Won't Let Anything Happen To You." Jim growled between trusts. After what seemed like an eternity to Sherlock Jim crashed heavily on him with a loud cry as he came. Sherlock followed suit within moments. He was glad that it was over. He was glad that Jim was back. Jim held him securely as he quivered through the aftershocks.

"I'll never let go Sherlock." Jim said in a more calm controlled tone.

_I know. _Thought Sherlock warily.

They sat by the fire in a plush arm chair curled into each other wrapped in a duvet. Sherlock was staring into the fire lost in thoughts. Jim nuzzled his neck and placed small kisses along. He was sorry, he was grateful. Sherlock involuntarily leaned into the touch.

"What would I do without you?" mumbled Jim in his neck.

_What do I do now?_

Thought Sherlock placing his chin over Jim's head.


End file.
